


Food for Lonely Souls

by BlueTrasno



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Homophobic scene, John being a good brother, Johnlock (only if you want to see the restaurant scene in that way), Mycroft Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-10-28 23:01:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueTrasno/pseuds/BlueTrasno
Summary: Trained by her nonna, Chiara has a special gift; she can cook food that touches people´s souls. Her world will be turned upside down when her father is accused of a vicious triple murder. The incident will bring Sherlock Holmes into her life, and maybe she will be able to transform the detective´s life in return.Angelo´s past and the restaurant scene from the point of view of his daughter.





	1. Angelo maintains

**Author's Note:**

> This is a moment of firsts for me. This is my first fanfiction, this is the first work that I upload on the Internet, and this is the first note that I leave to possible readers. For all these reasons, I feel that I am not writing a note, but a confession.  
I confess that English is not my first language. Despite doing my best, I am sure the text has grammar and spelling mistakes. The grammar checker warned me about wordy sentences and intricate text a lot. If there is something wrong, please, let me know.
> 
> I confess this story is based on the Sherlock version by Gatiss and Moffat. But not only that, there are influences from other books and films; sometimes I wonder if there is something original in this story. Anyway, I will point these influences. In fact, I am going to start now. Every chapter starts in the same way “... maintains”, a formula that I shamelessly copy from the novel Pereira Maintains by the Italian writer Antonio Tabucchi; the book was turned into a film starring Marcello Mastroianni. 
> 
> I confess that I am worried. The own characters have a lot of weight in this fiction; the first two chapters are focused on them, and I don´t know how well they will be received.
> 
> Finally, I confess I hope you enjoy the story.

Angelo maintains that once he had a daughter named Francesca, although when he introduced her to the new employees of the restaurant, he called her Chiara.

Six months after being born, Angelo brought his daughter to Castelluccio di Norcia, a tiny village lost in the middle of the Sibillini Mountains. Their parents were from there, his father had died ten years before, but his mother was still alive and he wanted her to meet her grandchild. There was also a secret plan; he hoped the baby melted the heart of the old woman, so she agreed to go to London with him and his family. When he handed the child over to her, Angelo fervently prayed his idea worked.

“Isn´t she beautiful? We named her Francesca after you.”

“No.” Angelo´s mother answered dryly.

“No? What do you mean by no? Are you saying she is ugly?”

“I mean that her name is not Francesca. Look at her eyes.”

The baby´s eyes were golden, like amber or clear honey.

“Yes, they are gorgeous. I told you, she is a beautiful baby.”

The woman sighed with resignation. Her son resembled his father´s personality; they had the same courage to leave everything behind in order to pursue a dream. Her husband had left his family and village to join the partisans, according to him, “to free the world from the claustrophobic mind of the Fascism”. Her son had left Italy because thinking of the wideness of the world made him feel limited and oppressed, what was the point of confining yourself to just one place when there were so many things to see? He had ended up in London, and sometimes she wondered how he couldn´t feel enclosed in such a chaotic and big city. She never spoke her mind about that; after all, everybody had their contradictions. Yes, her son and husband were quite alike; they also lacked the capacity of seeing people, of digging in their souls.

“I agree with that.” Angelo´s mother responded “She is a beautiful baby and her eyes are stunning, for that reason you can´t call her Francesca, her name must be Chiara.”

Angelo opened his mouth just to close it again; he didn´t know what to answer to that. His brain was unable to follow his mother ´s reasoning.

“Look, people tend to name children in memory of someone, or maybe in the hope that the name will give the baby the skills that a previous owner had. I have always considered that a huge mistake, every new life is a new promise; when people are born, they come to this world with the potential of doing great things, and their names must honour that potential. Look your daughter´s eyes again, Angelo. They are like the sun of the late hours of a summer day, soft and warm, a sun that allows us to see the beauty of the world before the said beauty is hidden by the darkness of the night. She´ll bring clarity to people´s life, she will help them to see things that they have never considered before. For that reason, her name must be Chiara.” 

Angelo remained silent for a couple of minutes, staring at his mother rocking the child, and thinking about what she had said. Since he had memory, he could remember her like that, full of advice and knowledge that mixed equally wisdom and superstition; pieces of advice that were given with such solemnity, that the other person ended up following them. Even his father, an extremely rational man, couldn´t deny her anything when she spoke in that way. Angelo knew that at the end, he would comply with his mother´s wishes, so there was no reason to delay that moment. Apart from that, he still had to persuade her to go to London.

“Ok, Ok then... Her name will be Chiara, it will be a bit complicated to change the name officially, but it will be done.”

Francesca didn´t say anything, she kept looking at her grand-daughter and cradling her. 

“Mamma, I´ve been thinking...” Angelo took a pause, he knew that convincing her mother to leave Italy wouldn´t be easy, he would have to choose carefully his words; he closed his eyes for a second to gather strength and courage. “I´ve been thinking that you could come to live with us.”

“Are you thinking of moving back to Italy?”

“What? No, that never crossed my mind. I was thinking you could live with us in London.”

Francesca stopped her rocking and looked at his son, her eyes were wide opened, as she was seeing him for the first time in her life, she couldn´t believe that he was suggesting that. Angelo knew immediately what she was thinking.

“ Mamma, I know that leaving Castelluccio is the last thing you want to do, but let´s face things as they are. You are 65 years old, and winters in these mountains are hard for a person of your age. Apart from that, living alone is not very wise, what would happen if one day you fell in the bath, or you were so ill that you couldn´t get up? Or...”

“Angelo...”The old woman interrupted. “Listen to me. As you said I am 65 years old, I am too old to learn a new language.”

“There is an important Italian community in London...” Angelo tried to argue just to fall silent immediately when her mother raised a finger.

“That´s not a point, I am also too tired to start any project. At this moment of my life, I only want peace and quietness.

Son, I´ve never had your father´s adventurous spirit. When you were born I agreed to move to Perugia, because I thought that it was the best for you, that you would have better opportunities there. Those were happy times for me. Your father and you filled my life with joy and love. However, in some way, I always felt that something was missed and it was these mountains. You are right, the winters here are hard, but I love them, I love how the snow covers the valley, how the gusting wind sounds when it hits the windows. I even love how the coldness tastes in my mouth. Winters here are fierce, but they are worthy because there is a certainty. The spring will come, the snow will melt and flowers will grow up. Red, blue, yellow and purple will cover the valley, and the breeze will bring the smell of poppies and calendulas. All those years in the city, I missed so much the _fioritura_.”

“But you shouldn´t live alone.” Angelo insisted, feeling how his determination was getting weaker.

“Living alone doesn´t mean to live in loneliness. Here I have my cousins and my friends from childhood. Every day we meet up to talk and remember the old times. Apart from that, I have the memory of your father, he is here and here.” Francesca said while she was pointing her head and her heart. “In my memories, he loves me with the same intensity that he loved me in life, it is impossible to feel alone when you have something like that.”

“And what about Chiara?” Angelo asked, that was his last trick, his trump card to convince his mother. “Wouldn´t you like to spend the last years of your life with her? Wouldn´t you like to transmit your knowledge to her, to be there when she speaks for the first time? Wouldn´t you love to sing to her and play with her?”

“Don´t worry about that, I will do all those things, you will bring her here every year to spend a month with me.”

“But...” 

“I don´t want to hear any but... There is a moment and a place to teach. Everything she learns from me, she will learn it here.”

Angelo didn´t say anything, he couldn´t even complain about how badly his plan had worked. His mother had spoken with wisdom, superstition, and solemnity; just one thing could be done, obeying her wishes.

Francesca looked at Chiara and smiled, if her granddaughter was going to bring clarity to people´s lives, she will need a tool, and the old woman knew the perfect one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it is explained in the story, Castellucio di Norcia is a village in the Sibillini Mountains, in Umbria. The place is beautiful. I had the opportunity of visiting it in summer, but if you google the name of the village and winter, and then fioritura (flowering), you can see how amazing it is. An earthquake in 2016, destroyed part of the village, and for what I could find, they are still working in its reconstruction. I would like to send my best wishes to the inhabitants. 
> 
> Regarding the name Francesca chooses for her granddaughter, I hope that my poor knowledge of Italian is right. Chiara is actually an Italian name, but here Angelo´s mother is playing with the concept of chiarézza (clarity) and chiara (light, clear). The inspiration for this name came from The House of the Spirits, whose author, Isabel Allende, chose names related to light for the female characters.


	2. Chiara maintains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francesca trains Chiara in the art of cooking and living.
> 
> No point in denying this, there is a big influence in this chapter, the book/film Like Water for Chocolate. The relation between Nacha and Tita was my inspiration when I wrote Francesca and Chiara.
> 
> Nonna is grandmother in Italian. There is another sentence in this language; the translation is the notes at the end of the chapter.

Chiara maintains that her first memory was when she was six months old, when his father brought her to Italy to be introduced to her grandmother. She went there being called Francesca and she came back being named Chiara.

According to Chiara, she could remember the moment that she was handed over to her _nonna_. She could remember the softness and warmness of Francesca´s breast, but above all, she could remember her smell, a strange mixture of basil, sage, and coffee with a fresh undertone that only later in her life, she would discover that it was the cold breeze of the mountains.

Angelo´s daughter rarely spoke about this memory; she had got fed up of being said that it was impossible to have such an early remembrance, that probably posterior contacts with her grandmother had made her believe that. However, Chiara was sure about that reality, she didn´t have any kind of doubt that her awakening to consciousness was olfactory and it was triggered by the strange perfume that emanated from Francesca, and she was certain about that because the old woman never smelt the same, her scent changed every day. The coldness of the mountains and the sage was always there. Her _nonna_ had a kind of obsession with that herb, a heritance that came from the Roman times. She grew it in pots and dried it in order to make infusions which she used to wash her hair with. She even drank it quite frequently. “If you want to have good health, be sure that you always have sage, it can cure everything, even sadness”, she liked to say. Those were the constant smells on Francesca, the rest always changed; sometimes it was possible to notice hints of rosemary, or the strong odour of garlic and onion, or the fragrance of cinnamon. For that reason, Chiara was so sure about her first memory. Apart from that, Francesca confirmed it when she told her the day they met; she had been drinking coffee and chopping basil to prepare pesto.

The smells were her first memory but also her introduction to Francesca´s kingdom, the kitchen. Those who knew the old lady would say without hesitation that she was an amazing cook, but she was more than that. She had the ability of healing people with food; not only she knew how to preparer soups that could alleviate a cold, she could also perceive any problem of the soul and see immediately what kind of food could cure it, and what is more, she would know how to cook it in a way that all the ingredients would work toward the remedial of the problem. When people ate a dish prepared by Francesca, they had the feeling that it had been cooked just for them. They ended up feeling less lonely and more loved, and the thought that they mattered in this world set firmly in their minds. It didn´t matter how big their problems were, in the moment the food touched their tongue, they knew that they could overcome them. Francesca had tried to pass this gift to his son, but it was unsuccessfully; Angelo became a good cook, but he lacked the aptitude of truly seeing people, of looking at their souls. Chiara, on the other hand... her grandmother knew she was special, and she made sure that the girl´s talent didn´t get lost.

Francesca started Chiara´s training as soon as the child could sit down upright. She sat the little girl in a highchair in the kitchen, and she passed her different ingredients, so the baby could smell and touch them. The matriarch knew she was doing right when Chiara waved a branch of rosemary and said: “_Rosmarino_, _rosmarino_”. Her parents never knew how to feel about that advance, in some way it was a slight disappointment for them; when the child had begun babbling, they had started a kind of competition between them, trying to make her say mamma or papa first.

Smelling an onion for the first time was another important milestone in Chiara´s education. Her grandmother waited until she was around two years old, as she thought it would be too cruel to do it earlier. The little girl took the piece of the vegetable and licked it; she didn´t cry, two big tears rolled down her cheeks and that was all.

“You are right, little one.” The grandmother said. “There is nothing wrong with shedding tears; life is full of them. They´ll well up throughout your existence, especially when you remove layers. It doesn´t matter if the layers belong to an onion or a person, in the moment you expose the core, all the pain and hopes that a person sustains, get exposed. And believe me, if the layers that are removed are yours, the tears will be bigger.”

Chiara was three years old when she helped to preparer a dinner for the first time. With great care, she took small amounts of dough and rolled them delicately until giving them the traditional shape of a gnocchi. When she was 13 years old, she knew most of her nonna´s recipes. Francesca started then a new game, she didn´t add an ingredient deliberately, and she let her granddaughter try the food. “What ingredient is missed?” She used to ask, Chiara never gave a wrong answer. 

When she was 15 years old, Chiara experienced what being really seen by her grandmother was like.

“Who is?” Francesca asked.

“Excuse me?”

“The person whom you felt in love with, what is his name?”

“I´m not in love.” Chiara answered, trying very hard not to blush.

“Chiara, I am 80 years old, throughout my life I´ve learnt a lot of things. I have my fair amount of knowledge behind me. The meringue is telling me that you are in love and it is reciprocated.”

The teenager´s face was a picture, eyes wide open and gaping mouth.

“The meringue?” She muttered.

“When a woman happily in love whisks egg whites, it takes her ages to raise them, as she is so absent-minded that she is not able to do it with enough strength. In case the other person doesn´t love back, she will do it in a question of minutes. You´ve been whisking those eggs for 20 minutes, tell me, Chiara, have they risen?”

Chiara looked at the boll, full of a whitish liquid.

“No, nonna, they haven´t.”

Francesca chuckled.

“Come on, give me that. I will do it, otherwise we won´t finish this tiramisu on time. And tell me everything about him.”

“His name is Paul, he lives in our neighbourhood; he loves football and my smile...”

Later on, when the dessert was already done, Chiara asked something:

“Nonna, when you said that a woman happily in love doesn´t whisk with enough strength... Well... the same, problem happens when you are sad.”

“Yes, you are right, but when do you preparer a dessert? When you are happy or when you want to forget your sadness. Trying to overcome your sorrow requires a strong will.”

One year later, when Chiara went to visit Francesca. As soon as she arrived at her grandmother´s home, she stormed into the kitchen, where the old lady was chopping pork meat. Francesca turned to see her granddaughter and she knew immediately.

“Oh... Chiara. It is ok, I know you don´t believe that now, but you will be better and you´ll realise that it was for the best. If he didn´t want you, it means that he didn´t deserve you.”

The matriarch made the teenager sit down and put in front of her a piadina stuffed with melted chocolate. Chiara ate it quietly, big tears rolling down her cheeks. In the late afternoon, she helped to preparer tiramisu; it took her only 10 minutes to raise the eggs.

When Chiara turned 18 years, her parents allowed her to travel alone to Italy for the first time, so she didn´t have to wait for them to visit her nonna and she could spend more time with the old woman.

“Look at you, that new hairstyle suits you. Of course, that´s not difficult, with that pretty face everything looks great on you.” Francesca said as a greeting.

“You exaggerate, _nonna_.” The little woman answered while she hugged her grandmother.

“Not at all. Be always aware of what is worthy of you Chiara, and never forget your flaws. It is the only way of not being belittled. Believe me when I tell you that there will be people who will try to underestimate your capacities and to exploit your weaknesses. Knowing both things will give you advantage over them.”

Chiara looked at her nonna in the eyes and smiled, she didn´t know why her father said that Francesca always spoke with wisdom, superstition and solemnity. She could never see superstition in her grandmother´s answers.

They spent five days alone, catching up, speaking about the cooking course that Chiara would start in September at the Westminster Kingsway College and, of course, about cooking. In all those days, every dinner was a small feast.

“But, it is only the two of us...” Chiara said when the old lady suggested preparing porchetta for dinner.

“It doesn´t matter, we´ll store it for when your mother and father come.”

The day before their parents´ arrival, Chiara was reading in her room, Francesca knocked on the door and opened it.

“Chiara... It is time to prepare the dinner. Today I am going to teach you a new recipe.” Her grandmother said.

“I thought you had already taught me everything.”

“No, I didn´t. I was keeping something for a special moment. Let´s go to the kitchen and I will show you.”

Once, in the kitchen, the matriarch took two black balls that almost occupied the whole palm of her hands.

“Do you know what this is?”

“I´ve seen it in shops, especially in the ones for tourists. They are truffles, aren´t they?” Chiara answered.

“Yes, it is. Today, you will learn how to cook pasta al tartufo. Truffles are a very special delicacy. Once I was given a book written by a French gastronome as a present, the author said that the truffles were the diamonds of the kitchen. Your grandfather told me that during the Middle Age they were considered a product of the Devil, due to its black colour and irregular shape.”

Chiara laughed. “What is your opinion, _nonna_?”

“Truffles, like all the things that are worthy, are praised or denigrated, but they are rarely understood. Truffles grow underground, in the core of the land, near strong trees, like chestnut trees or oaks, whose roots protect this fragile fungus.” Francesca answered, whilst she cut one of the truffles and passed a piece to her granddaughter. “Smell it.”

Chiara closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

“O God, this is amazing. It smells like wet earth, like a forest after a rainy day.”

“Indeed, as a telluric creature, truffle keeps the best of the earth in its inside, like a sacred secret that only those who have enough patience will have access to. It is necessary to be humble and free of silly pride to find them, as you must trust the instinct of dogs or pigs.”

“Pigs?”

“Yeah, pigs have an excellent sense of smell, especially if they are females. In the old times, the aristocracy searched for truffles with the help of hogs as a hobby. Can you imagine it? Women and men wearing smart clothes and following pigs. You can´t deny that is a funny image. Yeah, normally it is necessary the help of animals with a good nose to find these delicacies, although once I met a man who had the luck of finding them by himself. I married him.”

“_Nonno_? You... Did you marry _nonno_ because he found truffles?”

Francesca smiled, her eyes fixed on nothing, showing that she was looking at her memories.

“No, it wasn´t exactly like that. Your grandfather was born here in Castelluccio. When he was 16, he went to Rimini to work in a car repair shop. While he was there, he saw the corpses of the Three Martyrs. It was a big shock for him; one of them, Adelio Pagliarani, was the same age as your grandfather at the moment of the execution. A week later your _nonno_ enrolled in the resistance. The leader of the group asked him if he had family or a girlfriend, when he said yes, he was ordered to go home and say goodbye to his beloved ones. ´On the first of October you must be here again, you will be trained during the winter. The final strike will be the next spring, it will be a fight to the death, and who knows if there will be survivors`; according to my husband, those were the words of the chief. He obeyed, of course. He arrived in Castelluccio at night, and before going his parents´ home, he came to see me. I was alone at home; my parents and my sister had gone to help a family whose mother was in labour. I was outside picking up the laundry that I had hung that morning, it was then when your grandfather showed up, and he told me: ´Could you cook for me?` No hello, no good evening, just that, ´could you cook for me?` And he showed me a truffle.”

“Had you spoken before?”

“Never. I knew him, he was a year older than me, and we had gone together to the school. You know what school at those times were like. All the grades in the same room, boys on one side and girls on the other, together but not mixed. In our teenager years, we had started to notice each other, but before we could strike up a conversation, my mother noticed our mutual attraction.”

“Did your mother hear rumours?”

“Not at all, one Sunday, during the mass, she caught us staring at each other with that stupid smile that only teenagers stupidly in love have. That afternoon, I was given a speech about decorum and the importance of woman´s decency. I imagine that she also had a little chat with my sister, because since then my sibling developed the strange ability of showing up every moment that he tried to approach me, during the school breaks, when I went to the shop... Funny enough, that skill disappeared when he went to Rimini. “

“So, the first thing that he told you was if you could cook for him.” Chiara said laughing. “Well, that would put off a lot of women nowadays.”

“I know, but believe me, there wasn´t any trace of arrogance or superiority in his voice or demeanour when he asked me. On the contrary, he looked very nervous and shy. He even stuttered when he told me that he had found the truffle on his way to the village, near an oak tree.”

“And did you cook for him?”

“Yes I did, I prepared pasta al tartufo. When he put the first forkful in his mouth, he closed his eyes and he sighed happily. When he finished, he seemed more courageous and sure of himself. He took my hand carefully and told me: ´Francesca, in October I will join the partisans, if I survive, will you marry me?` ”

“What did you answer?”

“I was a bundle of nerves; I could only manage to nod and whisper: “I will wait for you”. He squished my hand and left.” Francesca chuckled and continued her story “When my family came back, it was a hell to explain how I had managed to get truffles to preparer the pasta, I was so nervous that nowadays I don´t remember what I told them, I am not sure if my lie was convincing or if they pretended to believe it. I didn´t see your grandfather after that, he didn´t come to say goodbye before joining the partisans, but I waited, I waited for a year, without knowing where he was or if he was alive or dead. Eventually, he came back, with a scar on his right eyebrow. We got married straight away.”

“You got married... Just like that? No dating, no courtship? You married a man whom you didn´t know at all. Didn´t your family oppose?”

“Well, that was war. After so much suffering, restrictions and poverty, people wanted to live. When you see death so close, life looks very short. We weren´t different, and regarding my family... Your grandfather was a hero then; he had fought for the freedom of the country, he had shown that he was a real man, able of taking care of important things, including me. My parents were delighted to have him like a son-in-god.”

“Yes, but I don´t know... he could be a bad person, mistreat you... I don´t know.”

“I know... I suppose that I made a risky bet and I won. Your grandfather was a caring and intelligent man, very ahead of his time. He convinced me to study more, it didn´t matter what. So after our marriage, we move to Perugia and I did a secretary course while he worked in another garage. After that, we started our little business, our host house. Seven years later your father was born. I have had a merry life, Chiara, and I wish the same for you. Promise me that you will pursue happiness.”

“I will.” Chiara said, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I have a good example now.”

“Well, I think we had enough sentiment for today.” Francesca said with authoritarian voice and a big smile that softened her tone. “Take the grater. Firstly, we have to grate the truffles, to extract from them all the secrets that they kept while they were under the earth...”

The next morning, Chiara woke up to a strangely silent house. She checked the clock; it was 9.30, by that time there should be the noises of her grandmother preparing the breakfast and the smell of coffee lingering. She went to the kitchen, it was empty, and the smell of the truffles could be still perceived. Had Francesca gone out?

“Nonna?” She shouted “Nonna?” She called for second time, there was no reply.

Chiara went to her grandmother´s bedroom, she knocked on the door and then she came in. She saw the woman lied on the bed, she got closer and stared at her grandmother´s face, her features were relaxed and there was a sweet smile on her lips. Then Chiara knew, Francesca had died during the night, while she was sleeping. The girl took a chair and sit down beside the bed, looking at the matriarch. She wanted to cry and maybe to say goodbye, but she realised that she couldn´t do it. Then, she remembered something that her grandmother had said the day before “I was keeping something for a special moment”. Chiara thought that her grandmother had taught her the tartufe recipe because she had turned 18, but that wasn´t exactly the reason; she did it because, in some way, she knew her end was near. That explained also why she had made her promise to be happy. Chiara felt a strong feeling of love and gratitude inside her, and without words, she said thank you to her _nonna_. Thank you for teaching her to cook, thank you for all the wise pieces of advice that she had passed to her... “Thank you, thank you...” She repeated in her mind again and again.

Chiara didn´t know how long she stayed beside Francesca, she didn´t hear her parents coming in the house or called for her, only when they opened her grandmother´s bedroom door, she noticed their presence, without turning she whispered:

“Nonna è morta.”

The next couple of days passed like a blur for Angelo´s daughter. Francesca was dressed in a black outfit and she was laid in a coffin, a photo of her husband was put on her breast. Relatives and friends came to express their condolences and accompany the family during the vigil. The day of the funeral, before going to the church, Chiara´s mother asked her if she wanted to say goodbye. “I need to go first to the kitchen”, she answered. When she came back, she hid the last piece of truffle inside one of the pockets of her grandmother´s dress.

“Nonno will want you to cook pasta al tartufo, I am sure of that. Send him my love.” She whispered in Francesca´s ear, making sure that nobody was hearing her. Then and only then, two big tears rolled down Chiara´s cheeks. 

* * * * *

In September, Chiara started her cooking course at Westminster Kingsway College. Her parents were over the moon, especially Angelo. He hoped the knowledge that her daughter acquired, helped to transform the familiar eatery into one of the most exclusive restaurants in London. He even started to dream with Michelin Stars. However, man proposes, God disposes. Or in this case, it was Chiara who disposed; she lasted less than 3 hours in the course.

The first day of the course, the students were given two hours to prepare a dish. Chiara chose _mozzarella in carrozza_, a typical antipasto from Campania that wasn´t very complicate to prepare. As she deemed there was enough time, she decided to bake the bread, in that way she would have slices with the thickness and texture she wanted. Preparing the dough kept her mind absorbed; she had always found sieving the flour mesmerising, for a moment she could hear the voice of her _nonna_ talking about the snow on the Sibillini Mountains; then, the process of mixing all the ingredients came. Contrary to a lot of people, she didn´t find the stickiness of the dough annoying, in fact, she loved to think that only with her hands she was transforming different elements into something else.

The calm brought by making bread was broken when she was waiting for the load to be baked. At that moment Chiara started to pay attention to what their classmates were doing. One of them had boiled bacon in chicken stock, blended the mixture and put it in a whipping siphon. A feeling of uneasiness invaded Chiara´s body, she felt as if she were in the wrong place, as if she didn´t belong there. Suddenly, the oven alarm sounded. She removed the bread, and whilst she waited for it to cool, she started to whisk the eggs; she breathed deeply and allowed the sound of eggs to calm her nerves, her mind drifted to the day that her grandmother taught her how to prepare that dish. Senza Fine by Gino Paoli was being played on the radio, Francesca was swaying to the rhythm of the song while she was frying the sandwiches of mozzarella. “Even the more simple things require to be treated with delicacy”, her nonna had told her. The memory helped Chiara to focus on what she was doing and to finish cooking half an hour earlier. However, that gave her the opportunity of observing the other students again, a girl was using liquid nitrogen to frozen something, the nervousness came back and without thinking too much, she left the school.

Chiara never saw the look of contentment on her teacher´s face when he tried her _mozzarella in carrozza_; she never knew about the satisfaction he experienced when he felt the contrast between the crispiness of the fried bread and the softness of the melted mozzarella in his mouth, and she missed the first lesson of the course, delivered immediately after the teacher ate her dish: “When you aim to greatness, it is important to pay attention to the small details. Today, we are going to learn how to fry eggs”.

What she would always remember was his father´s expression when she stormed into the kitchen of the restaurant.

“What are you doing here?” The man asked. “Shouldn´t you be in class?”

“I´ve quitted.” Her daughter said whilst she took her apron.

“Quit? What do you mean you´ve quitted?”

“I mean exactly that, I´ve quitted, I´ve decided that I don´t want to attend the course.”

“Why? Were the teachers or your classmates rude with you?”

“No, nothing like that, it is just that... I didn´t feel comfortable with the environment.”

“You didn´t feel comfortable with the environment... Sorry Chiara, but I am struggling to follow you.”

“Look, dad. I know this is crazy, but while I was there I felt as if my personality and the way they do things were completely opposite, as if we had different philosophies regarding cooking... even life. Everything was so... clinic, detached...”

“Ok, ok... I understand... This is the typical crisis of young people, everybody goes through that. Look, here is the deal. You do this course, and in summer you can travel around Europe... even the world, let overcome that crisis with a bit of rebellion... What do you think?”

Chiara smiled sadly.

“No dad, this is not a life crisis. In fact, I´ve never been so sure about who I am or what I want.”

“And what about all the things that you can learn? Or do you think that you know everything? Have you really become so pretentious? What about the possibility of a Michelin Star?”

“Michelin Star? Now I´m really thinking that we are talking in a different language... Look, this is not me being pretentious, I know that there a lot of things that I have to learn yet. Probably in that course I could acquire valuable knowledge, but I am also sure that I would be unhappy, and I have a promise to keep, a very important one.”

Thus, Chiara ended the conversation, although not the discussion. In the following weeks, Angelo and her daughter argued again and again about her decision. Neither his father´s disappointment nor the phone call from his teacher could make her change her mind.

Angelo´s restaurant never turned into the exclusive place that his owner wanted, nor did it win a Michelin Star. However, as soon as his daughter took charge of the kitchen, strange quotidian things started to happen: an engagement ring hidden in _panna cotta_, a table reserved to celebrate a golden wedding, someone who wanted the simplicity and warmth of a _teglia di patate e funghi_ after a rough day... Maybe people didn´t know it, but they came to Angelo´s looking for food that nourished their happy moments, that relieved their sadness... And Chiara prepared every single dish to make them feel that they mattered in this world; as only the truly heiress of Francesca could do.

The staff ended up calling these strange quotidian things Chiara´s miracles. The protagonist of these small wonders used to laugh at this expression. According to her, there wasn´t such a thing as miracles, just human understanding expressed with food. However, there was a special case, one that proved to be a tough challenge, to the point that when she finally succeeded, she was tempted to call it a miracle. This special case involved a man of strange eyes, high cheekbones, and black curly hair called Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “A woman happily in love, she burns the soufflé. A woman unhappily in love, she forgets to turn on the oven.” The sentence by Baron St Fontanel in Sabrina by Billy Wilder was my inspiration for the moment when Francesca discovers her granddaughter is in love. 
> 
> A piadina is a kind of flatbread; it can be stuffed with salty or sweet food. One of my favourite versions is with Nutella®.
> 
> The gastronome that Francesca talks about is Brillat-Savarin, author of The Physiology of Taste.
> 
> Adelio Pagliarani was a partisan. His mates, Mario Capelli and Luigi Nicolo, and he were arrested by the Nazis and hung in Giulio Cesare Square. Pagliarani was 19 years old when he was executed. Nowadays, the square is called Tre Martiri in their honour.
> 
> In April of 1945, the final partisan insurrection took place. Several cities like Milan or Turin were liberated by the partisans. 
> 
> Nonna é morta: Grandmother is dead.
> 
> I have to confess that I don´t know how funerals are organised in Umbria, so I made Francesca´s funeral a bit.
> 
> I don´t also know how the first day in a cooking course is, so that was invented. That scene was inspired by an anecdote that a colleague told me. Her husband works as cooking teacher, and sometimes he had to deal with students that tried to do difficult staff without knowing the basic things. The use of liquid nitrogen in the kitchen is not unusual in the molecular gastronomy.


	3. Chiara maintains II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My version of how Sherlock cleared Angelo´s name. 
> 
> I chose Ceccarelli as Angelo´s surname. It is a kind of tribute to one of the most loveable characters in Cinema History, Cabiria, whose real name in Fellini´s film was Maria Ceccarelli.

Chiara maintains that Sherlock Holmes literally stormed into her existence; not only for the way he came into the restaurant but also because of the way he entered into her family´s life.

Despite Chiara´s ability to make people fell in love with her cuisine, her talent couldn´t prevent the wickedness of those who want to rule what doesn´t want a master.

Everything started with a visit. One day, two men showed up at the restaurant saying that they wanted to speak about business with the owner. Angelo invited them to come into his office; he thought they were sales representatives; in the last month her daughter had been experimenting with flour suitable for celiac, and she had put in contact with some companies. In the coming weeks, Angelo would regret allowing them to come in; he would lament not paying attention to their appearance, to the fact they hadn´t brought any sample of their products, what is more, he regretted all those things at the moment those men offered him their deal.

What the staff would remember of that visit was the sudden shouts in the office, how the men went out of the room smirking, and what one of them said: “Mr Ceccarelli, you will regret to lose the opportunity of being part of a very prosperous business”. Angelo´s employees would remember how furious his boss was, how he refused to speak about what had happened, and how he came back to his office breathing heavily and muttering “_stronzi_, _stronzi_...”

What Chiara could never forget about that day was how the atmosphere in the restaurant changed from that moment, how it got more and more suffocating; how his father became short-tempered, taciturn and paranoid. The day after the visit, he decided to hire a better security system. However, every time she asked him what was wrong, he just answered with an “everything is fine, you don´t need to worry about anything”, but Chiara could notice how he said that more to reassure himself than to calm her concerns.

As if this weren´t enough, as weeks went by, there were fewer and fewer costumers. Angelo had never invested too much in advertising; word of mouth had worked pretty well, especially after Chiara took charge of the kitchen. Every day, particularly during the weekend, new faces used to show up in the restaurant. Nevertheless, in the last month, that tendency had been stopping, to the point that it appeared that the restaurant was surviving thanks to the regulars. Obviously, the problem was studied. The possibility of a new restaurant making competence to Angelo´s business was analysed, but the situation seemed to be the same as always. It was when they checked the reviews of the place on the Internet that they discovered the reason for the change. Most comments were positive, people praised the quality of the food, the relaxed atmosphere of the place, and the manners of the staff, but in one of the most recent comments, someone had written that a rat had been seen running in the local. It was a shock for everybody. The owner was extremely fussy when it came to cleanness; once a year, he hired a company to look for possible pests. Angelo roared when he read the note: “_queste teste di cazzo_”. Chiara couldn´t stand it anymore, she had to have a serious conversation with his father.

“Dad, we have to talk.”

“Talk about...?”

“About what happened with those men that came to see you a month ago.”

“Madonna Santa, not again...”

“Yes, again... Things have changed, and everything started with that visit. And what you shouted... _queste_? You suspect those people are behind that awful comment, don´t you? Please, tell me, who were those men? What did they want?”

Angelo took delicately the hands of her daughter.

“Chiara, trust me, just trust me... Everything-is-fine.”

One more time, Chiara saw how his father was trying to convince himself of that lie.

With the lack of customers, the obvious problem appeared, paying the staff, and especially the suppliers, was getting more and more difficult. Angelo tried to get a loan, but as soon as the banks saw the restaurant accounts, they refused to lend any money. The possibility of using the family saves was considered, the idea provoked a big quarrel that made the atmosphere in the Ceccarelli family even more suffocating. The troubles of the business ended up infecting household life; Chiara´s parents didn´t speak to each other for a couple of weeks. On top of that, Angelo´s behaviour became more bizarre. He began to go for long walks during the night; his excuse was that the coldness and quietness of the last hours of the day helped him to think. None of his relatives believed him. His wife thought he was avoiding facing the problems; his daughter thought he was hiding something. Oddly enough, the nocturnal wanderings coincided with a respite in the financial front. The sense of uneasiness, which Chiara was feeling lately, grew inside her.

Angelo´s daughter tried with all her strength to keep her head above the miasma that was covering her life. She kept going to the restaurant and cooking, it didn´t matter that some days nobody showed up; if anything at least the staff would have a nice meal. The memory of her _nonna_ was present in her mind more than ever; she had survived a war, she had managed to build a life, a fulfilled life. If her grandmother had overcome hard moments and succeeded, she could do it, her family could do it. Things couldn´t get worse, there was only one direction, to get up and start again.

But Chiara was wrong, things could get worse and they did.

She and her father were opening the restaurant when a couple of police officers showed up. They asked Angelo if he would mind answering some questions. He invited them to pass to his office. When they left after fifteen minutes, she tried to ask Angelo what they wanted, but before she could open her mouth, he said: “Don´t worry, everything is fine” She was starting to hate that sentence.

Three days later, Chiara was at work when she got a phone call from her mother. The woman was hysteric, Angelo had been arrested. She was told that he could be held up to 36 or 96 hours, as he was suspect of murder.

Chiara didn´t react, even if she had wanted, he wouldn´t be able to do it. As time went by and she could think of that moment objectively, she would remember an article about Pompeii in National Geographic. According to experts, the inhabitants of this city hadn´t died asphyxiated by the ash and gas expelled by the Vesuvius; they had been killed by the extreme heat, which also explained the distorted postures of the bodies; the high temperatures had provoked an instant rigor mortis. Although she didn´t know it at that moment, that was what Chiara felt when she was informed about her father´s arrest. The suffocating atmosphere she was living in reached a point that trapped her in a rigidity that didn´t allow her to move, to think, to feel... Only a thought crossed her mind; they wouldn´t be able to overcome this.

Chiara gathered what remained of her strength and sent the staff to their homes; she told them that family problems had aroused and the restaurant would be closed for the rest of the week. Then, she also went home. When she arrived, she found her mother speaking on the phone, her tone was commanding, there was determination in her eyes, the previous panic had disappeared.

“Were you talking to a lawyer?” Chiara asked once her mother finished the call.

“Yes, I was. I have already arranged an appointment for tomorrow, but you aren´t to come with me.”

“Mum...”

“I understand that I can´t ask you not to be worried, and I promise I won´t hide anything from you, you will know about every decision and every future action. But as a mother, I don´t want my daughter to go through certain things.”

Chiara accepted her mother´s orders and the next day she went back to the restaurant. Even if she didn´t pretend to open it, she needed her realm, the kitchen, the only place where she felt that she still had control, the only place that brought sweet memories that protected her from the awful reality. She spent most of the time cleaning, and around the lunchtime, she decided to prepare a piadina stuffed with chocolate. Her plans were interrupted by a frantic pounding on the door.

* * * * *

It is a recurrent topic in the history of humanity; great writers have addressed it, drunks have talked about it in their inebriation, how a second, an unconscious decision can change everything.

When Chiara went to see who was knocking, she had already prepared her answer: “Sorry, the restaurant is closed”. But then she saw him; it was his face what called her attention, black curly hair that would be luscious if it weren´t because it was greasy, hollow cheeks and a general gauntness accentuated by a several days stubble, and piercing blue eyes. At that moment, she decided to change her respond: “Sorry, today we don´t have _zuppa sospesa_, the restaurant is closed”. However, in the last second, she changed her mind one more time; all her being shouting that she wanted to cook for another person, to make someone else´s world kinder, even if hers was falling apart. She opened the door, and before she could invite the man in. Sherlock Holmes stormed into the eatery and Chiara´s life.

“I´m afraid that I am not here to indulge your charitable needs.” The man said, “I have to talk with Angelo´s relatives, or a close friend, it doesn´t matter, but I must speak with someone that believes to know the man well.”

It took Chiara a couple of seconds to respond. He had spoken fast; it was even possible to notice a hint of anxiety in his tone. Apart from that, once she could see him closer, she realised that his eyes looked a bit greener, and his clothes were of good quality, although rumpled and slovenly.

“I am Chiara, his daughter, and you are...”

“Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. Now that we have made the introductions, can we focus on what really matters? I need to ask you some questions about your father.”

“Why?”

“Why? O Dear God, tiny brains, totally lost without their routines. First introductions, then a bit of useless talk...”

“Excuse me, Mr Holmes” The mockery tone used by the man started to anger Chiara “My family is going through hard times. Knowing why you want to talk about my parent is not useless small talk, but a need.”

For a moment, they stared at each other, golden eyes full of anger against aquamarine eyes full of curiosity and certain amusement. Mr Holmes was the first who broke the silence.

“Very well, I will give you a reason. Those idiots of Scotland Yard are getting everything wrong, as always. I could solve the case faster than any one of them, but Lestrade doesn´t want to give me access to the crime scene, he keeps saying that he won´t allow me to get involved in my condition. Ridiculous...! There is nothing wrong with my condition. Anyway, if they don´t let me solve the crime, at least I can have the pleasure of humiliating them by showing them that they got the wrong suspect. Is that reason good enough?”

Chiara didn´t answer, she didn´t know what to say. The man had been pacing like a lunatic during his speech, which had sounded like total madness.

“I can see it is not enough. Was it too arrogant? Why do people talk of arrogance when they are confronted with their stupidity...? Ok then, I´ll appeal to your sentiment. I am the person who can prove your father´s innocence.”

“Can you provide an alibi? Did you see him in another place? In a pub?”

“No, not exactly but I can show ...” For a moment, he seemed to lost track of what he was saying and focused his attention on Chiara´s neck, then he waved his hand, as he wanted to clear the air in front of him. “I can demonstrate that he couldn´t kill those men.”

“You keep repeating that, but how can you do it?”

The man smirked, according to Angelo´s daughter he looked like the cat that got the cream.

“When you opened the door, you were thinking of offering me something to eat. However, that wasn´t your initial idea; you changed your mind at the last moment, didn´t you?”

“Yes, I did...” She answered with hesitation.

“You have a nurturing personality, but it wasn´t only that. You thrive when you cook, the kitchen, the recipes... The food world is where you feel in control. Shall we have a look at your kingdom?”

Before Chiara could answer, before she even had an opportunity to tell him where it was, the man was already heading towards the kitchen; the only thing she could do was to follow him.

“You cook instinctively” He said “In a very traditional way. Smells, textures, colours... indicate you how much of an ingredient you have to add. Only people with a lot of experience cook like that... Someone has taught you, your mother...? Wait... No, not your mother, but your grandmother. That´s why I found so interesting the medal you are wearing; it belonged to her, didn´t it? Now, tell me, did I get something wrong?”

For the umpteenth time in that day, Chiara found herself staring bewildered at that strange man. Who was he? How could it be possible that he knew all those things? She didn´t say anything, she kept looking, trying to find something that told her what kind of person he was. She looked and looked. And then, she saw... a special brightness in his eyes, passion, the longing for the opportunity of doing your very best. She knew the feeling, she had it in the busy evenings in the restaurant; while a lot of people got stressed in the demanding atmosphere of a restaurant kitchen, for her, every order was a chance to shine. Whatever uncanny ability this man had, he craved to show it, to put it in practice.

“So...” He said, interrupting her thoughts. “Aren´t you going to call me freak, or maybe asking me how I know?”

A knowing smile appeared on Chiara´s face, and for the first time since he met him, she knew what to answer.

“Do I really have to ask you how you know, Mr Holmes?”

Mr Holmes answered with another knowing smile.

* * * * *

They took one of the tables.

“Are you sure that you don´t want anything?” She asked.

“No, it is fine. You don´t need to confirm that you have a caring personality.” He replied.

“A lot of people said that, how did you reach that conclusion?”

“While you were opening the door, you didn´t look at me, you were trying to find the right key. However, you were going to say something, probably that the restaurant was closed; when you finally saw me, you clenched your jaw, a symptom that you had changed your mind and taken a different decision. Knowing that you feel comfortable in a kitchen was easier. As you said, your family is going through hard times, but you are here...”

“My mother didn´t want me to go to the lawyer...”

“Yes, and here you are. You could stay at home trying to read a book, you could go for a walk, or you could be in your room staring at the ceiling, but you decided to come here, why? Because this is the place that you relate to safety, to control.”

“How did you know that my grandmother taught me to cook?”

“What you were preparing in the kitchen...”

“Piadina...”

“Yes, you have all the ingredients on the counter, but you don´t have anything to measure them. There is a scale in one of the selves, at least there is a box, it has lost colour, but the tab isn´t worn, which means that it isn´t used. It requires a certain amount of time to be able to cook like that. You are quite young, so you have taught yourself, or someone has taught you. In the first case, you would have learnt with TV programs and books, they always use exact quantities, like tablespoons, ounces. So, someone taught you by making you pay attention to the sound of a sauce boiling, the colour onions get when you fry them... As I said before, it is a very traditional way of cooking; someone has passed you that knowledge. First, I thought of your mother but that medal... It was made by a goldsmith, the quality is really good, although the image is a bit erased, the owner used to touch it often, maybe when she was nervous, or to reinforce a pray. In fact, the image itself is quite telling, a Virgin with her arms outreached in a protective posture. The medal was owned by a person who had a hard life and value security. Bearing in mind your Italian origins, I suppose that it belonged to your grandmother. You have fidgeted with the jewel a couple of times, especially at the beginning of our conversation, it calms you too. The link is obvious.”

“So...” Chiara said “You observe people, and with the information you gather, you can know things about their lives...”

“I don´t gues...” The man interrupted his answered, he seemed a bit baffled. “Yes, that´s it, I... I observed.”

“So, whom did you... observe in order to know my father is not guilty? Have you talked to a witness? Have you seen the corpses?”

“ No, Lestrade...”

“Lestrade is...”

“A detective inspector in New Scotland Yard.”

“Are you a... police?”

“No, I am a consulting detective; the police consult me when they are out of their depth. As I was saying, Lestrade didn´t give me access to this case. Anyway, I manage to see a couple of seconds of your father´s interrogation.”

“Ok then. What could you see?”

“I need more data in order to confirm my deduction. Has your father been behaving strangely?”

“Yes, he has, since the visit.”

“The visit?”

“Yes, a month and a half ago, more or less, two men came to the restaurant. They asked to talk to my parent, and he invited them to the office. I don´t know what happened, but there was a big quarrel, and after that, his behaviour changed. He was tense and angry.”

“Right, but before that or even after, did he... I don´t know... start to go to the gym, change his hair-style?”

“As far as I can tell, no he didn´t. Sorry... but I am a bit puzzled. Why is my father´s grooming or lack of it important?”

“Straight to the point... You are not going to like this... Your father had or is having an affair?”

“WHAT?”

“I told you, you wouldn´t like it.”

Chiara took a deep breath, the idea of his father having a... dalliance sounded unbelievable and even ridiculous. Had it not been for the seriousness of the situation, she would have been laughing. Apart from that, she had already seen enough of Mr Holmes to know he had seen something that made him reach that conclusion.

“What made you think that?”

“As I said before, I could only see a bit of the interrogation. Your father was asked where he was the night when the murders took place. He didn´t seem to be willing to answer, but the whole time he was rubbing his left ring finger and even a couple of times he looked at the said finger with a slightly guilty expression on his face. That made me think of adultery, a great alibi but one that can destroy his family.”

“ I can see why you think my father could have an affair... But the thing is...” Chiara paused for a moment as she was trying to put in order her thoughts. “The thing is that my father wears two rings on that finger. One is his wedding ring, the other one is a signet. It belonged to my grandfather; he was a partisan, ten years after the end of the war, my grandmother gave it to him. It was engraved with the image of a Roman Victory. The present wasn´t only a tribute to the peace, but also to the life that in some way my grandfather had made possible. When he died, my father got the signet, he likes wearing it with his wedding ring; according to him, my grandfather´s teachings and example are the foundations of the life he aims to, and the shield that he protects his family with.”

“That´s interesting and it opens new possibilities.” Mr Holmes said while he placed his elbows on the table.

For a couple of seconds, they remained silent, as if they were lost in their own minds, suddenly Chiara gasped.

“He did something bad, something that in some way betrayed my grandfather´s ethic.”

“Most probably. The thing is to know what. It is stupid to dwell on a hypothesis that was proved wrong. It is time to start from the beginning. Ms Ceccarelli, you said that your father changed after the visit of two men. You don´t know what happened in the office...”

“No, I don´t. I have asked him several times but he has refused to tell me anything.”

“You said that he became tenser...”

“He was wary, although I can´t say of what. He even got a better security system. He kept it even when things started to be economically bad.”

“Did you have financial problems?”

“We have financial problems. A month ago, someone wrote a bad review of our restaurant, they said that they had seen a rat in our premises.”

“Right” Mr. Holmes said with certain excitement. “Time to confirm a new hypothesis.”

He took his mobile and after fidgeting with it, he passed it to Angelo´s daughter.

“Can you recognise any of them?”

Chiara found herself looking at the photos of three men, suddenly her face lost any trace of colour.

“The ginger one and the one with a scar in the right eyebrow... They...” She heard her voice trembling, she had to shallow. “Who are they?”

“Who were they. They are dead.”

“The murdered...” She couldn´t bring herself to finish the senteces. Mr Holmes nodded.

“The ginger one was John Rosall, the other one was Bran O´Doherty. The one you didn´t recognise was Leonard Quin. They were members of an Anglo-Irish cartel.”

That last piece of information was too much for Chiara. She felt her hands shaking, so she put the phone on the table. In her brain, a question was being repeated again and again: “Why?” Her family were just normal people trying to live and be happy as far it was possible, so why would a gang come to mess their lives?

Mr Holmes seemed to sense her thoughts.

“Before the economical problems, was the business going well?”

Chiara nodded.

“Anglo-Irish gangs are very... savvy. They try to keep a low profile and tend to blend in. Did you think they were criminals?”

“No, I didn´t.”

“ If they had been members of an Eastern European or Latino-American band, you would have noticed that something was wrong straight away. However, Anglo-Irish groups avoid bringing attention to themselves. They keep violence to a... let´s say... necessary minimum. The pillars of their power are good documents; good transport arrangements, and effective ways of launder money, mainly property purchase, especially out of the U.K., in places like the Mediterranean coast of Spain. Nonetheless, having clean money available is useful; a successful small business can provide it, that´s why they put in contact with your father.”

“When they left, they said that my father would regret not being part of a prosperous business. Gosh... this is so... It is just difficult for me to wrap my head around all of this. We are normal people trying to run a restaurant, and of a sudden, a group of gangsters think that our business is ideal for cleaning money. To a certain point, it is surrealist. Why did they choose us? And what made them think that we would agree?”

“My idea is that they already own a local here. They saw how well you were doing; your restaurant became a big temptation for them. Regarding your other question, I would say that it was a problem of inexperience and prejudice.”

“Our Italian origins...”

“I´m afraid so. The other reason was their youth. They were in their earlier twenties; the oldest one was Leonard Quin, 26 years old. If they had had more experience, they would have known that is not good to jump into conclusions; they would have tried to find out what kind of man your father is, and they wouldn´t have made that suggestion unless they had been 95% sure that he would accept.”

“Did they write the bad review on the Internet?”

“Most probably. It was a kind of warning, to show how easily they could destroy your lives. Did you suspect it?”

“My father said something that made me think they were behind that comment.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I can tell you that the actions against your father were one of the mistakes that brought their end.”

“What do you mean?”

“The fact that they exposed themselves to your father makes me think that they didn´t say anything to their superiors. They would have suggested waiting, or they would have just dismissed the idea. It is quite likely that these three people started to act on their own; they were young, suddenly they had money and were in charge of a part of the business, of course, they became cocky. They started to dream big, maybe they imagined themselves controlling London underworld; however, as a big city, London doesn´t want a master. Too many groups have interests in this megalopolis. It is unwise to want to rule it; you can only aim to be a top player.”

“Did they threaten other gangs?”

“Quite likely. I don´t know if they were direct threats or if they tried to control other gangs´ areas or business, but the way they ended up points to that. They were found in the bank of the Thames. Their throats had been slit, and their hands had been cut off. Their mouths were stuffed with money. It looks like a clear message for those who are too greedy. I think the perpetrators were Albanian mobsters, but I can´t be sure without having access to the case.”

“Won´t this start a war between gangs?”

“My sources haven´t informed of any movement in that sense. My idea is that the Anglo-Irish leaders allowed the “punishment”. If the victims had been challenging other groups, there would be a moment when they could threaten their superiors.”

Chiara took a moment to think. Her life had become a suffocating nightmare in the last months because a group of arrogant boys had decided to play a game that was too big for them. All her concerns, all her obsessive thoughts found an explanation delivered in a very clear way by Mr Holmes. It was then when she realised that she hadn´t made the most important question.

“If this is a problem of gangs, why was my father accused of murder?”

“I imagine the police came here.”

“They did.”

“Probably they were able to track that bad review. Obviously, they asked your father where he was when the three mobsters were killed. If he didn´t say the truth about his whereabouts that night and the police discovered he lied...”

Mr Holmes didn´t finish the reasoning, the conclusion was obvious.

“Anyway, as you pointed your father did something naughty.” He said with a sing-song tone. “Let´s find out what he did. Would you mind if I have a look at the office?”

Chiara stood up.

“Follow me, I will show you.”

* * * * *

The office wasn´t bigger than a box room. A strict functionality and tidiness kept any sense of chaos at bay. A desk with two chairs, a wardrobe and two selves were the only pieces of furniture. Mr Holmes looked everything closely; he even took the toy train that was in the lost item box.

“Normally that box is full.” Chiara explained “But with the lack of customers...”

“What do you do with the things that people don´t claim?”

“We give them to charity shops.”

“Your idea, I imagine.” He said with a smirk on his face.

Chiara laughed half-heartedly.

“Yes, my idea. However, there is something that I am planning on keeping. A beautiful digital reflex camera, it is in the wardrobe; we keep the most valuable objects there. People usually come back for those, but the camera belonged to a Japanese tourist, the evening that he came to the restaurant had to be his last one in the city because he didn´t come back.”

Mr Holmes opened the wardrobe; inside there were some uniforms, a safe and a black gym bag, but there wasn´t any trace of the camera. He opened the bag; there were some black clothes and another bag with a pair of trainers.

“That´s strange, the camera used to be on that shelve.” Angelo´s daughter commented. “Well, I suppose it doesn´t matter. Would you like to see the safe?”

“Please.”

Chiara opened the safe, inside there were an envelope with money and a lap-top.

“Is the lap top also a lost property?”

“No, it belongs to my father. He likes keeping it there because it has the accounts of the restaurant, although the invoices and the other bureaucratic papers are in the binders.”

Mr Holmes opened and switched on the lap-top.

“It is password protected.” Chiara said, but by the time she finished the sentences, he had taped something and a photo of the Sibillini Mountains appeared on the screen.

“Let´s have a look, Ms Ceccarelli, shall we?” There was a condescending tone in the man´s voice, another proof of how much he enjoyed showing of.

He sat at the desk and started to check the accounts.

“How often does your father update the information?”

“He does it weekly.”

“He hasn´t done it lately. May I see the binders?”

He spent half an hour looking at the invoices.

“This is strange.” He finally said. “According to all these documents, your father has been paying arrears in the last weeks. However, the amounts of money don´t correspond with the incomes. Did you decide to use personal savings?”

“The idea was discussed. There was a big quarrel at home, my mother was adamant; if things kept going bad, it was better to have some financial cushion.”

Chiara moved on her chair as she was uncomfortable. The gesture didn´t go unnoticed by the consultant detective.

“Is it still a sore point in your family?”

“Yes and no, it is more about what happened after. My father started to go for long walks in the late night. According to him, it helped him to clear the cobwebs.”

“You seem not to like those strolls. Why?”

Chiara took a deep breath.

“I realised that when he started those night walks, there was a small respite in the financial front. I don´t know why, but it has always made me feel uneasy, and after what you have discovered...”

Mr Holmes didn´t say anything, for a couple of seconds he just looked at her, and then his eyes opened widely.

“Oh, oh... That´s...”

“What happened?” Chiara asked, a bit puzzled by his reaction.

“The camera...”

“The camera?”

“Yes, the reflex camera. When was the last time you saw it?”

“I am afraid I can´t tell.”

“You don´t remember...” For a moment he seemed annoyed “It doesn´t matter, I think I have another way of proving my hypothesis.”

He stood up and went directly to the wardrobe. He took the gym bag and took out the trainers.

“That´s interesting and even better, they are dirty. This is so great... Ms Ceccarelli, I am taking the bag. In 24 hours more or less, I should know what naughty things your father has been doing.”

And just like that he left.

Chiara stayed sitting down for a couple of minutes. In the future, she would say that she didn´t understand her own reaction. A stranger with a peculiar ability had told her that her family had been the target of criminals. The same stranger had taken something that could be used as evidence in a trial. Despite all those unsettling things, she had the feeling that the “unbreathable air” that had been surrounding her life started to disappear, as it was pushed by a wind that heralded a much-needed storm. Later, she stood up and went to the kitchen to finish her piadina, which she stuffed with a lot of chocolate.

When finally she arrived at home in the late afternoon, she found her mother sitting on the sofa, nursing a cup of tea.

“Mum.”

“Chiara.”

“Have you seen the lawyer?”

“I have. She had an interview with your father in order to get a general picture, but things didn´t go very well. Your father avoided talking about where he was the night of the crime.”

Her daughter knew why her parent didn´t want to speak about that day, at least in part. However, she preferred to keep that information for the moment. Knowing about Sherlock Holmes with his ability and lunatic behaviour, as well as the conversation they had had, would have broken the woman´s nerves.

“I am sure things will go well in the end. Do you want me to prepare something to eat? We could do with a nice dinner.”

Her mother smiled with sadness and nodded.

* * * * *

The next morning Chiara came back to the restaurant. Trying to find something to do was difficult. The place was immaculate; cleaning again would make her feel like she was losing her mind. In the end, she opted to prepare a cup of sage tea and wait.

She had lost track of time when she heard a pounding on the door. Mr Holmes was there. As soon as she opened, he burst in.

“Break-in.” He said.

“Sorry.”

“Break-in, burglary... the naughty thing that your father has been doing.”

Chiara lost any ability to think or talk, she just could stare at the consulting detective, her mouth open.

“I think it would be better if we sit down. I will explain everything.”

She breathed deeply and tried to focus, and then she followed him.

“Are you with me?”

“I am.” Angelo´s daughter answered “You can start.”

“Everything started with the camera that the Japanese tourist forgot. When the financial situation became critical, your father had to come up with the idea of selling it. Tell me something, was it a good camera?”

“I checked it on the Internet. A brand new one can cost £ 700.”

“In a pawnshop that doesn´t ask papers or questions, your father could get between 250-300, maybe not enough to pay all the arrears, but enough to keep the creditors happy. It was then when he got an idea. Nowadays there is no house without gadgets, laptops, cameras, iPods... objects that are easy to carry and with a high value. Desperation made him move from idea to action.”

Chiara sighed

“You know?” She said “It is difficult for me to imagine my father breaking in. I mean he is this temperamental mal who gets angry when he sees pineapple in a pizza, who is gentle in an annoyingly patronising way with the staff. He is the man who tells such bad jokes that you end up laughing, and the most important thing, he loves my mother and me. I just can see him... like a burglar.”

Mr Holmes looked at her slightly perplexed, as he was comforting a fact that it was difficult to understand.

“Well, I don´t know your father in... let´s say a familiar atmosphere, but I can tell you something, he is quite good as a thief.”

Being said that your father was a skilled thief should be something shocking, one of those things that should let you speechless. However, Chiara had enough shocking revelations in the last days; getting mute wasn´t a strategy anymore, so she reacted in the most obvious way, laughing, her whole body shaking, tears running her face, for a couple of minutes she couldn´t control herself.

“Sorry.” She said.

“Nervous laughter is a very normal response to stress.” Mr. Holmes replied.

“I suppose it is. The idea of my father being a robber is unsettling, him being a “good burglar” is just so... I don´t know... crazy?”

“Usually, people have difficulties to imagine their beloved ones doing immoral things. – He sounded as that reality bored him. – Anyway, considering your father background, it shouldn´t be so surprising.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am sure your grandfather used to tell stories about the war.”

“Yes, he did. My father says that his bedtime stories weren´t Hansel and Gretel or Puss in Boots, but stories of skirmishes, ambushes...”

“There you are. Your father knew the theory, the importance of patience, of being observant, of not bringing attention. He chose middle-class suburb areas, quiet neighbourhoods, where you can find houses without a security system and even a hidden key under a pot. Your parent spent time walking around, targeting a house and learning the customs of his inhabitants. When he was sure that nobody was in, he broke in and took valuable objects, mainly electronic staff, some jewellery if he was lucky.”

“I am going to make the big question...”

“How did I know?”

“Yes”

“The night strolls, the amounts of money paid to the creditors and the disappearance of the camera made me think of the possibility of robbery, but it was your father´s trainers what confirmed the hypothesis, at least in part.”

“The... trainers.”

“Yes, the trainers. They are black; apart from that, the logo was painted with a black permanent marker. Probably the marks were reflective, and your father wanted to avoid anything that could identify him. Now, the trainers weren´t clean, so I could analyse the dirtiness. Among other things, I could find some remnants of plane tree bark, the most common trees in London parks, and some rests of duck excrements, so we are talking of a park with a pond. There are several of those, most of them are closed in the evening, but some open 24 hours. The main options were Tooting Bec Common and Gladstone Park, both in suburb areas. The later one was the ´first candidate`, it is better communicated, I imagined that your father would try to leave the ´crime scene` as soon as possible. I made some inquiries and guess what.”

“There were some robberies around the date of the murders.”

“Bingo. Your father was in Dollis Hill when those three men were killed, the corpses appeared in Barking.”

Mr Holmes finished his explanation and for a couple of minutes, there was silence. Chiara realised that his father innocence would come through the admission of guiltiness. It would be difficult for him; he had used _nonno_´s teachings for something immoral, which also explained in part why he had been idiot enough to avoid confessing.

“Do you know what will happen now?” She asked.

“Finally, Lestrade has listened to me; the police already have the trainers. They will try to make your father fall apart by showing them. Normally, guilty people confess when they are confronted with an object of their crime. Then, they will try to find some evidence that can be used in court, like fingerprints or footage. If the lawyer your mother has hired is good and knows how to play her cards, your father won´t pass more than 26 weeks in prison.”

“Right, I suppose that bearing in mind what could happen if he were found guilty of murder, I should feel grateful.”

“Maybe.” He answered laconically while he wrapped himself in his coat.

The gesture caught Chiara´s attention. For a moment, she stopped worrying about his family´s problems, and she looked at the consulting detective. It seemed like in a couple of seconds, all the energy that he had been showing during the explanation of her father´s misdeed, had left his body. He even looked more emaciated than the day before. He noticed that she was observing him, and his eyes hardened.

“Mr Holmes...”

“I am fine.” He snapped, then he got quiet like he knew that he had done something wrong, although he couldn´t point exactly what. In a more subdued tone, he added: “I had to go.”

Chiara wanted to stop him, she didn´t know if it was to express her gratitude in a pompous speech or to convince him to let her cook for him. However, that sudden change in his attitude had let her baffled. “Take care of yourself, Mr Holmes” She finally said.

He just nodded and stood up. For a second, he looked at the window. “That´s a good view of the street and crossroad,” he said, and just like that he left the restaurant, leaving Chiara without a chance to replay and with the feeling that, the man had a strange ability to make dramatic exits.

She decided to get her things and to go home. When she arrived, her mother was there, the woman looked nervous.

“I got a phone call. Your father has confessed. Of course he didn´t kill those men, but you can´t imagine what the idiot did.”

“He was robbing in Dollis Hill.”

Her mother was open mouth.

“How... How do you know?”

“Mum, sit down. I have to tell you something.”

And Chiara told her mother about the strange encounter with Sherlock Holmes.

* * * * *

Nothing was said in the trial that surprised Chiara. Everything had happened as Mr Holmes had deduced. The bad review had made the police distrust Angelo. When he was interrogated, he said a half-true, that he had gone for a walk in the area. However, nobody had seen him, and even though there were several cameras, he didn´t appear in any footage. It was then when he became the main suspect. Shame and stupid hope that the real culprit would appear made Chiara´s father not confess until the police showed him the infamous trainers. And that time, a video showing Angelo taking a night bus in Dollis Hill and holding a bag a bit too possessively confirmed where he was when the three men were murdered.

The lawyer played her cards well, and Angelo was sentenced to 26 weeks.

What did surprise Chiara was to see the consulting detective in the court, and not as a witness or expert, but as a simple attendee. Being honest with herself, Chiara didn´t know why she found his presence so unexpected. They had spoken twice, she couldn´t say that she understood or knew the man, but her intuition told her that Mr Holmes was a person who liked showing off, maybe appreciation, but he hated to be in the spotlight and surrounded by people. Nevertheless, she thought her family would like to meet their saviour, and she let them know that he was there. As the trial was about to start, it was not possible to approach the consulting detective. However, Angelo expressed his wish to talk with him. His wife and daughter understood. When the sentence was pronounced, and Angelo was taken out of the courtroom, the lawyer informed Mr Holmes that his client wanted to speak with him. It was then when Chiara was surprised for the second time, the consulting detective agreed. 

Chiara was outside trying to enjoy the soft breeze and having a break from the busy and slightly chaotic atmosphere of the Court when she saw Mr Holmes passing.

“Mr Holmes.” She said but he didn´t hear her.

Chiara decided to go after him; she picked up the pace in order not to lose him in the crowded street. She was lucky; he stopped to speak with a man who stood in front of a car. The stranger was holding an umbrella and wearing expensive clothes, probably bespoken; he exuded authority. As Chiara got closer, she could notice that his eyes were hard, but at the same time, there were anxiety and even fear in them. She also started to hear their conversation.

“You finished your good deed. You made sure his name was cleared.” The man said with anger.

“Good deed? What are you talking about, Mycroft? Don´t be so mundane. This has nothing to do with charity. I just wanted to enjoy my victory. I solved the case, I showed them that even in my ´condition` I was better than any of them.”

“Your victory? Slavery is forbidden, but I am sure that next time you can pay someone to hold a wreath over your head and remind you that you are mortal.”

“Is it so hurtful to admit that I am right?”

There wasn´t an answer, the man saw Chiara waiting and he frowned. His reaction made Mr Holmes turn around.

“Sorry.” She said. “I didn´t mean...” She didn´t know how to continue without embarrassing herself, she didn´t mean... eavesdropping, spying?

Fortunately, the consulting detective didn´t let her finish.

“Ms Ceccarelli, you don´t need to thank me, your father already did it.” His tone was calmer than when he was talking with the other man, but there was a horrified hint in his voice, as he didn´t want to remember the conversation.

Chiara smirked. She spared a glance to the posh stranger.

“I am also sure he invited you to come to the restaurant, probably he has promised you a banquet that would shame Trimalchio.” For a millisecond, the other man seemed impressed, and she heard Mr Holmes chuckled.

“Anyway,” she continued “my annoying nurturing personality wouldn´t be happy without expressing my gratitude and confirm my father´s offer. It will make me happy to cook for you. I promised not to serve fake eggs stuffed with live birds.”

Mr Holmes didn´t say anything, but for the first time, Chiara saw him smile, a simple smile that didn´t pretend to show sarcasm, condescendence or even understanding. She smiled back feeling that it wasn´t necessary to say anything else, she nodded and left. For a couple of seconds, she still could hear the conversation between the two men.

“I fulfilled my part of the agreement. You solved this case, and I even helped you by giving you access to a lab. Now is your turn. You have to go. Please, brother.”

He almost begged the last two words. Chiara couldn´t hear the reply, by then she was far.

* * * * *

Time went by; things didn´t get right straight away. The first time she and her mother went to see Angelo in prison, her parents ended up arguing. It was also necessary to explain what had happened to the restaurant staff, Chiara decided to tell the truth, nobody quitted. The young Ceccarelli took all those things as the storm that was cleaning her life. The fact the horrible comment was deleted and customers started to come again helped to improve the situation.

Thus, twenty-six weeks passed relatively fast between attending the restaurant, visiting his father and making sure her mother understand why he had done what he had done. Finally, Angelo was released from prison and took back the control of the business. With more people coming to the restaurant, the little miracles came back. In some way, everything was ok, and Chiara could really believe those words.

She hoped to see Mr Holmes again and be able to show off her abilities. She gave up after two months. Oddly enough, she didn´t feel hurt, she just assumed that it was another proof of his eccentric personality, and maybe she wouldn´t see him again.

Seven months after the trial, she was preparing tiramisu when she heard her father shouting.

“Ah... This is so great. Chiara! Chiara! Come here, quickly.”

She left the kitchen and saw a couple of puzzled customer and Angelo patting Mr Holmes` shoulders.

“Oh my God!” She said . “I thought I would never see you again.”

The consulting detective smiled.

“I´ve been... busy.” He replied.

Chiara noticed that the man looked better. He was dressed smartly; his hair was styled and in general, he seemed healthier, although a bit thin.

“Are you coming for your feast?” She asked.

“No, I just need the table in front of the window and a bit of silence.”

The request puzzled father and daughter, but they agreed.

Chiara returned to the kitchen. Half hour later, Angelo came in.

“That was weird. He spent all the time staring at the street. Then he left, he went after a man that as soon as he saw him started to run.” 

“Well.” She said. “Maybe it was for a case. I mean... He solves crimes and helps the police, perhaps it was related to that.”

The idea thrilled Angelo. Two months later, when Mr Holmes came back and asked for the same table, the owner of the restaurant enquired with certain enthusiasm if it was for a case. The consulting detective answered with a stare that said “shut up” and confirmed the Italian´s suspicions. Angelo didn´t mind the rude response, and the next day, he instructed the staff to seat the consulting detective at that table every time he showed up.

The next time he visited the eatery became a milestone in the history or the place, or better said in Angelo´s life.

Mr Holmes had taken “his table”. Time was passing by, and he was more and more restless. It looked like he was waiting for something, but that something didn´t happen. Suddenly, Angelo approached him, and in a low tone, he said:

“I think what you are waiting for is in the back alley. Nobody with £ 200 shoes would risk getting them dirty for a pee.”

The man looked at him with certain perplexity; one second later, he crossed the dining area and kitchen to go to the alley, startling Chiara, who almost dropped a pan, in his way.

The next day, Mr Holmes came back.

“I got the suspect.” He said before Angelo could greet him. “It was the man with the expensive shoes.”

“I saw him when I went to throw some rubbish, I thought...”

“Your father taught you well. I am sure that he would have been happier if you used those skills for something more honourable than burglary.”

The consulting detective didn´t let the man answer, he just left the place. One week later, Angelo got a phone call from Mr Holmes: “Keep an eye on the opposite street. I will be there in half an hour”. And just like that, Chiara´s father started helping to catch “evil people”. He was ecstatic with this new collaboration, and what is more, the guiltiness that he still carried for using his father´s teachings to do something bad began to disappear.

However, while Angelo was happier and happier about Mr Holmes´ visits, her daughter was getting more and more frustrated. In any of those visits the man hadn´t ordered anything to eat, and that bothered Chiara in many levels, her gentle soul as well as her pride as a cook. Fortunately, she was a person who knew how to take her chances as soon as they came, and that was what she did.

As it had become a tradition, one evening, Mr Holmes was sitting in his spot when for the first time he asked something, although for Chiara´s exasperation it wasn´t food but a glass of white wine, which he poured over his head.

“I need you to kick me out as if I were the worst drunk that has ever come to your restaurant.” He said to a baffled Angelo, who recovered immediately from his confusion, likely excited by a game that he didn´t understand, to play the best role as a furious owner and throw his counterpart out amidst very colourful insults. 

The detective left behind his coat, which Angelo put with the missing items, not the box, but inside the cupboard, where Chiara found it the following day. She took it and appreciated the good quality of the fabric and the elegant touch of the red buttonhole.

“This coat...?”

“It belongs to Mr Holmes.” Her father answered.

Chiara smirked, he would come back for it, and this time she would make sure that he would try one of her dishes.

“Let me know when he arrives.”

Then she went to the kitchen. If she really wanted to impress, she would need to make the _amaretti_ herself. That would really take time, the sooner she started, the better.

* * * * *

As Angelo´s daughter had predicted, Mr Holmes came back for his coat.

“Mr Holmes.”

“Ms Ceccarelli.”

“Did you catch your criminal?”

“Not exactly, I´ve managed to retrieve a... delicate item from one of his pockets; that was the important thing.”

“My father has gone for your coat; he will be here very soon. This is for you.”

She passed him a box. The detective opened it to see what was inside. Chiara knew the moment the smell of chocolate mixed with rum reached his nose for the way he closed his eyes. He took two deep breaths, and he smiled in a way that told the young Ceccarelli he had remembered something.

“It is a _bonet_, a typical dessert from Piedmont.”

He didn´t say anything, he just nodded, almost shyly. The reaction surprised Chiara. At that moment Angelo appeared with the coat.

“Sorry, I had to attend a call. Here it is.”

“Thank you, I... have to go.” Mr Holmes replied.

“Hope you enjoy the bonet, Mr Holmes.” She said before he could leave.

“It is Sherlock.”

That bonet started a new tradition. When the detective came to the restaurant to solve a crime, the next day, he would show up again to ask for one of the Chiara´s dishes. The first time this happened, it was an awkward situation, at least for Sherlock; he scratched the back of his head while asked Chiara something to take away.

“What would you like to eat?” She said grinning, amused by the man´s attitude.

The question seemed to give back the man his normal demeanour.

“Do I really have to say what I want, Miss Ceccarelli?”

“It is Chiara.”

They shared a knowing smile.

Sherlock never asked for a specific dish, and Chiara fully enjoyed that freedom. He tried her _sebadas_, _saltimbocca alla romana_, _pasta alla norcina_... It seemed that was her miracle for the detective. But in some way, that was wrong, the real miracle happened when he appeared with another man.

That day, Angelo burst in the kitchen, he was delighted.

“Chiara, Chiara... You won´t believe it. Sherlock is here with... a date.”

“A date?”

“Yes, a blondish man, a bit short but good-looking.”

The young cook was puzzled. In three years, the detective had never brought anyone, not a friend, not a relative... That fact had made her father and her feel a bit protective about the man. There was a moment that they saw him as a kind of distant relative that you didn´t see in a long time, and then you just got fond of him; although they were never sure if those feelings were reciprocated.

Chiara went to the dining area to peek out. His father was partially right, Sherlock had company, but she wasn´t sure it was a date. The strange man´s pose was slightly hunched, but it didn´t look like his natural posture. In some way, it was like he had convinced himself that he was miserable, but he didn´t want that. She got the impression of seeing two lonely souls starved to connect but unable to do it. At that moment Angelo went out of the office with a candle.

“Dad, do you know if they are going to eat?”

“Sherlock probably not. I am not sure about the other.”

“Ok, if he decides to eat, I want you to recommend him _pasta al tartufo_.”

She came back to the kitchen and took the grater and a piece of truffle.

“It is time to reveal secrets hidden in the core.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stronzi: assholes.
> 
> Queste teste di cazzo: these dickheads.
> 
> I tried to write the arrest and custody of Angelo in a realistically way, but there were several details that I didn´t know if I was getting right. Finally, I decided to keep it vague. I hope the scene isn´t too far from reality. 
> 
> There is a Neapolitan tradition called caffè sospeso, pending or suspended coffee. People pay for two coffees, but they only get one, the other one will be given to a poor person. Chiara offers a variant of this practice, zuppa sospesa, pending soup. For those who have Netflix, in some countries there is a documentary about this tradition, the English title is Coffee for all.
> 
> Chiara relating to Sherlock´s passion for his job was inspired by the Danish film Babette: “Through all the world there goes one long cry from the heart of the artist: Give me a chance to do my best.”
> 
> The idea of young mobsters trying to control the criminal world is slightly based on the Italian TV series Romanzo Criminale, about a band in Rome in the 1970s. The modus operandi of the Anglo-Irish bang is inspired by an article in The Irish Times, “Irish gangs join British to control Europe´s drug gateways”.
> 
> I don´t know if a defendant can talk to someone after the trial, before going to jail. If it is not possible, consider the moment when Sherlock is asked to talk with Angelo as a dramatic licence.
> 
> “The banquet or Trimalchio” is a passage from an Ancient Roman novel, Satyricon, by Petronius. A former slave and now new rich offers a dinner that is a “bit excessive”.
> 
> Amaretto, in plural amaretti, are a kind of biscuits made with almonds. Chiara uses them here to decorate a bonet, which, as she explains to Sherlock, it is a dessert from Piedmont, a region in the North of Italy.
> 
> Sebadas or seadas are a kind of pasties stuffed with cheese. They are typical from Sardinia. 
> 
> Saltimbocca alla romana, veal steak and prosciutto.
> 
> Pasta alla norcina: pasta with saussages from Norcia and cream. Another dish from Umbria.


	4. John Watson maintains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chiara´s cooking triggers John´s memory. The doctor ends up wondering about the personal life of his dinner partner.
> 
> In this chapter there is a homophobic scene, so please read it with caution. I have to confess that the said scene isn´t original at all, the short film Love is all you need? was the inspiration.

John Watson maintains that even though it was the first time that he ate it, as soon as the dish was served, he realised that there was a whole ritual when it came to pasta al tartufo. He looked at the plate; it wasn´t anything fancy, just pasta covered with a whitish sauce and black grains. However, he immediately learnt that the less essential sense when you eat truffles is the sight. A potent smell hit his nose, a smell with reminiscences of rain, wood and wet earth. The second strike came with the first forkful, a powerfully delicate flavour filled Dr Watson´s mouth, while he could feel the slightly coarse texture of the grated truffles in his palate. With the second mouthful, he already knew the ritual, close your eyes, breath in, chew slowly, taste, feel... Little by little, all those sensations brought memories to the present; he remembered a special rainy day.

* * * * *

In his memory, he saw himself with other students in the school pitch. Most of the people had already left; everybody had hurried to home once the bell had announced the end of the classes. Dark clouds had confirmed the weather forecast for that day, and in the last hour, a strong wind had started to blow. The rain was imminent, and it would be unmerciful, one of those rains that would make you close the umbrella because it would be useless. He wasn´t worried about that, though; neither were the other 25 people who were waiting to know if they would be part of the rugby team. His t-shirt stuck to his back, wet with sweat. He felt like his stomach got smaller, and his heart was pounding hard, to the point it wouldn´t be a surprise if it came out of his chest. He had already been there a year ago, and it had hurt. It had hurt when the coach hadn´t said his name, as well as all the jokes that his schoolmates made the following month. “Don´t be so sad, Johnny Boy. Now you are more balanced. Your ego is at the same level as your height”. However, that second time, if he didn´t make it, it would be more painful, because that time he had fought for it.

A couple of weeks after being rejected, he was in the living room, pretending that he was watching TV, and feeling miserable when her sister came in. “What are you watching, tiny brother?” Harriet used “tiny brother” every time she wanted to annoyingly remind him that she was the older sibling, that she could irritate him freely because she was five years older. John had learnt to answer back suggesting her to paint her nails pink or practice walking in heels; her sister was a bit of a tomboy, and she was fed up with the “you should be more feminine” speech. Nonetheless, that day he had enough with his mates´ teasing in the school, so he replied with an angry and loud “fuck off”.

“WOW!!! Someone is in a bad mood.”

John didn´t bother to answer and tried to make her believe that he was really interested in what was going on the TV.

“Is this about having been rejected by the rugby team?”

He answered with another silence.

“So this is about that. John... you know that rugby isn´t only about strength, it is also about being fast, accurate when it comes to passing, there is technique. Maybe you are not exactly He-Man, but you can excel the other abilities.”

He looked at her sister with interest, and she chuckled when she saw his face full of curiosity.

“You have a whole year in front of you; do you want me to help you?”

This time he broke his silence and answered with timid OK.

The following months, under her sister instructions, he started to run, trying to do the route that Harriet had planned faster. She even hung the hoop, which her mother had bought when Harriet started rhythmic gymnastics, in the garden, so he could practice passes.

“You should see mum´s face.” She said while she was hanging it. “For a moment she thought that I was going to take it up.”

And now, there he was, waiting to be accepted in the team, thinking that another rejection would be more painful because he had strived for this.

“They have to admit me, it is only fair... it is only fair, it is only fair” He repeated that again and again in his head, like a mantra able to prevent from happening what at that moment was his worst fear.

“John Watson.”

The coach was saying his name, but he heard him like an echo, as if he was very far.

“John Watson, step forward.”

“Step forward”, that meant he had done it, he was in. Suddenly he passed from the nightmare of the uncertainty to the sweet blur of happiness, the knots in his stomach turned into a flutter of joy.

As soon as the rest of his future teammates were chosen, he hurried to collect his things. He couldn´t wait to tell his family the news. Harriet would be delighted; as far as his sister was annoying, he couldn´t deny that this was also her triumph; she had believed in him and helped him fight for his dream. His mother would be so happy, maybe she would suggest going out to dinner, and his father... John Watson was looking forward to seeing the pride in his parent´s eyes and hearing “well done my little soldier”.

“Watson, Watson...”

One more time the voice of his trainer woke him from his reverie.

“Sir?”

“Where are you going? The changing rooms are over there.”

“I was going home.”

“Without taking a shower?”

The question made him realise that he was so excited about sharing his success that he hadn´t thought of showering. A single raindrop fell over his head.

“It doesn´t matter.” He said to his trainer. “I mean... it is going to rain, it will probably start before I arrive at home, I will likely have to have a bath anyway and...”

The perplexity on the coach´s face made him stop his chatter.

“I... I am not sure what I am saying, the real thing is that I need to see my family as soon as possible, I can´t wait to tell them that I am part of the rugby team.”

Part of the rugby team, saying it aloud made it more real, and he felt a kind of vertigo. The teacher seemed to notice it, the man´s eyes shined with amusement.

“Ok, Watson, go home and celebrate this ´conquest` but the next day I want you down to the Earth. You are now one of my rugby players, and my rugby players don´t go around stinking and sweating.”

“Of course sir, thank you.”

He ran home. In the middle of his way, it started to rain. As it was expected, it was implacable. Heavy drops hit his face, they drenched his clothes. However, he welcomed them. He was high with happiness, with the pride of having worked for a dream and getting it. He felt fully alive, and nature just seemed to mirror that feeling with the strength of the rain, with the smell of fresh grass and humid earth that pervaded the atmosphere.

By the time he arrived at his house, he was completely soaked. As soon as he was inside, he let his school bag fall and kicked off his trainers. He heard his parents´ voices, it was strange that both of them were at home so early in the afternoon, but he was so excited that he thought it was better, as he could give them the news at the same time.

“Mum! Dad!” He went to the kitchen, where the voices came from. “Mum, dad. I did it. I am part of the rugby team.”

“Not now, John.” His father said. John hadn´t expected that reaction. He got startled when he saw the hard expression on his face.

“Mum, what´s going on?”

John´s mother was the personification of calmness, the member of the family able to make you believe that everything would be fine. For that reason, he got even more shocked when her mother looked at him with red-rimmed eyes.

“Mum, what´s wrong? Why have you been crying?”

“For goodness sake, John. Go to your room!” His father shouted.

John obeyed, too appalled to feel angry or hurt. While he was going to his room, he could hear his father for some seconds.

“Maybe this is our fault. We let her indulge too much for too long, playing football with the boys in the neighbourhood, those hairstyles...”

As he passed in front of her sister´s bedroom, he heard her crying. For a moment he considered to go past, suddenly feeling too tired to worry about anything, but he changed his mind and came in without even bothering to knock.

“Harry...”

He found her sister sitting on the floor, hugging her knees and with her head down between them. When Harry looked at him, John got appalled. Her fringe, which used to be long and she liked to comb in a chaotic way like that new singer, Madonna, had been cut. Someone had written the word BUTCH in her forehead. Her lower lip was split, and it seemed that it had just stopped bleeding.

“Harry... What happened to you? Who did this?”

“I thought... I thought she felt the same for me.” Her sister couldn´t continue. It was painful to control the sobs and talk at the same time.

“Felt the same?”

Harriet took a long breath.

“Linda Sanders, I thought she loved me, just as I loved her. She had always been so kind, and that day in the school bathrooms, when she insisted on putting make-up on me and was applying the blush... she looked at me with so much tenderness.”

John didn´t say anything; her sister´s confession of her lesbianism was a shock. She continued her narration.

“Today, after school, we went home, we were gossiping and laughing, then she stopped and started to laugh even harder, she said... she said that a raindrop had fallen in the middle of her forehead. I dried the trail that it was leaving with my thumb... It was like in the films, you know? That silences that precedes a kiss. I wasn´t sure if I was reading the situation correctly, but when she leant her head, I just went for it. Then... then... Before I could touch her lips, she pushed me away, and she started to shout ´I told you, you never listen. LEAVE ME ALONE`. I didn´t understand that sudden change, I was going to apologise when I heard a voice behind me ´Everything OK, Linda?` I turned around, and I saw Mathew Smith and some of his friends, and Linda... She answered ´This annoying lesbo never leaves me alone, it doesn´t matter what I say. She was going to kiss me, can you believe it?` The next thing I heard was someone saying ´Of course I believe you, the ones of her kind are just like that`. Then Mathew suggested that maybe a good thrashing would reverse that sick tendency. I knew I have to leave, so I run, but they chased me. ´Kill the lesbo, kill the lesbo` They shouted. And I kept running... At the end...”

She didn´t finish the sentence, what had happened was quite clear.

“I want to believe that Linda got scared when she saw Mathew. But, it hurts so much that she just sold me”

“For goodness´ sake.” Their father was yelling again. “Forget about her friends! Do you think after this she will have any?”

“When I arrived home.” Harry kept talking. “Mum was already here. As soon as she saw me, she went hysterical. The only thing I could answer when she asked me what happened was ´Linda rejected me.` You should have seen her eyes. Suddenly it was like she understood everything. She phoned dad, and they´ve been arguing for almost an hour. Gosh... This is shit!”

Harriet started to cry again. Her whole body was shaking, as if all the strength she had managed to gather to tell the story, had abandoned her. John was still quiet, he didn´t know what to say, he didn´t even know what to think. A photo stuck on the mirror got his attention; Jacqueline Leavy, a member of the British rhythmic gymnastics team, was playing with a ribbon. He remembered his mother and sister watching the competitions, his mum asking if it wasn´t beautiful, encouraging her daughter´s interest in something “girlish”; suddenly Harriet´s answer got a new meaning “Yes, she is”.

“I tried not to feel in the way I do.” She said when she caught his brother staring at the photo. “I tried to cut it, to put it away... But it seems impossible, I can´t help it.”

She seemed desperate, her eyes begged to be understood. John nodded, then he realised the window was open. The wind had stopped blowing, but it was still raining. He went to close it.

“NO!!!” Her sister shouted. “Don´t close it. I need to breathe... I need to breathe.”

The way she pronounced the last words made John understand she wasn´t only talking about getting oxygen in her body, but also about the need of freedom to be herself, about getting away of that awful situation.

Her sister was attracted to women, that fact was still shocking. However, what John saw in front of him wasn´t any of those things that people used to say when they talked about lesbians; he didn´t see a mental-ill person, a pervert or sexual maniac. John Watson only saw Harry suffering and hurting on many levels. Until then, he had been quiet and even paralysed, it was time to do something; without thinking too much, he sat down beside her sister and hugged her, letting her cry and feel supported. 

They stayed like that for a while, the voice of their parents echoing in the house when the discussion got too intense.

“You should take a shower and change these wet clothes.” Her voice was hoarse for all the crying, but it sounded a bit calmer.

“So do you. We should also take care of that wound in your lip.”

None of them moved. Outside, the sound of the rain was weaker, probably it would stop soon. A fresh humid smell permeated the room, it felt liberating.

“Did you get in the team?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well done, little soldier.”

John hugged tighter her sister.

Many things happened after that day. Harriet went to live with their grandparents in Brighton. She came home to see John´s first match. He noticed that her sister had painted her nails clumsily. One year later, she moved to London to study physiotherapy. Being out of the family control and in a big city made Harriet engaged in rebel behaviour; parties and heavy drinking were common. One night, she ended up in the hospital on the verge of an ethylic coma. That was a turned point, their parents realised that having a lesbian daughter wasn´t a tragedy, losing her was it. However, by then, it seemed that John´s sibling had developed a liking for auto destructive-behaviour, which appeared when things didn´t go well; in those moments, she would push people away.

John couldn´t predict any of those things that afternoon, but while he was hugging and comforting her sister, he understood what acceptance meant, what meant to love and care for someone unconditionally.

*****

The lessons of life that we learn thanks to those we love, and even hate, become part of our own being. That final reflection, prompted by his memories, brought John back to the present and made him think of his dinner partner. He had followed him to a crime scene, he had come to his side without too much opposition, he had texted a murderer just because he had asked it. John had been blinded by the brilliance of the man and the dangerous life he had offered him, but who was really he? Did or had he loved someone? Had he been loved? Whom did he rely on when things got too tough?

Sherlock himself had recognised to be disliked, what happened in the crime scene was a clear proof of that. Mrs Hudson seemed to be motherly fond of him. Mike Stamford had shown an easy acceptance, while the Detective Inspector had presented an endurance mixed with some kind of trust, even though the doctor couldn´t imagine in what. There was also the stranger described by Sherlock as the most dangerous man he ever met, an arch-enemy. Did those really exist?

John Watson swallowed another mouthful of pasta.

“People don´t have arch-enemies.”

“Sorry?”

“In real life, there are no arch-enemies in real life. It doesn´t happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don´t know if the training planned by Harry is believable, if not, please consider it another dramatic licence.
> 
> Harry´s hairstyle would be similar to Madonna´s in her first album.
> 
> Jacqueline Leavy was a rhythmic gymnast. Her current surname, after getting married, is Beltrao.


	5. Sherlock Holmes maintains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for Sherlock´s memory.
> 
> This chapter was challenging. When I started to think of this story, season 4 hadn´t been aired yet, so initially, Redbeard was a dog. After the final season, I hesitated about including “the pet”; then I thought that this was about Sherlock´s reminiscences, so the dog stayed.
> 
> Writing Mycroft was quite difficult. I always thought of him as a complex character, but I realised that taking him from his brother´s point of view is even more complicated. The “don´t be smart Sherlock, I am the smart one” should be present, but in some way the detective also acknowledges the fact his brother was there (Sherlock´s phone call during Watson´s wedding or the Mycroft of the mind palace after the shooting). I tried to balance both sides, but I am not sure if I got it right, and to be honest that terrifies me.
> 
> I´ve imagined both siblings in a kind of transitional period. Mycroft is starting his liking for diplomacy and political games, while Sherlock is still fascinated by pirates, but his interest for investigation is awakening.
> 
> And yes, I shameless copied a paragraph from The Sign of Four by Arthur Conan Doyle.

Sherlock Holmes maintains that once he gets the mental exaltation provided by the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, his mind is in its proper atmosphere. Then, his only focus is on finding the solution, on getting rid of all useless data and keeping the pieces that give the whole picture a sense. Anything else, hunger, tiredness... is just a distraction that his mind and willpower can ignore, and that includes the “Proust phenomenon”, also called odour-evoked autobiographical memories, a term he prefers as it eliminates any poetic reference and focuses on the physiological process. The olfactory system is the only one whose signals aren´t processed by the thalamus; they go directly to the amygdala, therefore the power of smells like a memory trigger.

According to the consulting detective, that was what happened when Angelo brought John´s food, and a smell of wet wood and musk reached his nose. Some rebel memories left the rooms that he had assigned them in his mind palace just to showed up where he didn´t want them. What was Redbeard doing there?

The dog´s fur was soaked. Sherlock could feel his own hair wet. His jumper was covered by a layer of humidity, the typical dampness that drizzle lets in cloths; you think it isn´t a problem, but in the end, it seeps through. It hadn´t got to that yet; after his run through the field, he had found shelter under the big willow. From time to time, a heavy drop fell from the leaves.

In his memory, he could see his own hand graving a brand. Even with seven years old, his fingers were long and lean. He threw the brand into the stream, which disappeared in a couple of seconds, swept along by the waters. Redbeard didn´t move, as he realised his owner wasn´t in the mood and that wasn´t a game of throwing and fetching. If the animal had been able of such thoughts, he would have been right; the child was furious. He wanted to scream his frustration, but it wasn´t wise, probably his brother would have started to look for him, a speech about behaviour and not upsetting mummy already prepared. He didn´t think he needed or wanted to hear him now or ever. Instead, he took a deep breath; the rain had enhanced the smell of musk and wet soil, a scent that didn´t subdue his anger.

That stupid idea of socializing... it only brought problems. He didn´t understand why his mother was so adamant about meeting other people, things never ended well. Going to the church so they could know other children had been horrible enough. Why did people pretend to be interested in the life of men and women that had lived in fear of a superior entity hundreds and hundreds of years ago? The small talk at the door when everything had just finished was just unbearable. Most of the time people exaggerated their realities or they just lied, and he couldn´t call them out on their falsehood, as Mycroft was ready to pinch him as soon as he was about to reveal one of those deceits. Apparently, it was rude. He didn´t understand why; in a couple of sermons, the pastor had mentioned the importance of saying always the truth. Nonetheless, one day he managed to prove someone wrong.

That morning, his parents were talking to a married couple. Their son, a boy a bit older than himself, told him out of the blue: “I´ve found a skeleton in an old house. It was one hundred years old, and the eye sockets were full of big fat maggots”. 

By the tone of voice, it was clear that the child wanted to scare him, Sherlock just blinked:

“It is quite unlikely that it had maggots.” He said, and then he proceeded to give him the same explanation that Mycroft had delivered when he saw a similar skeleton in one of his sibling´s pirate drawings, a very graphic description of the human body decomposition, from autolysis to skeletonization. “ ... so, a one hundred years old skeleton without any remains of soft tissue isn´t an attractive ´place` for flies to lay their eggs, but bones are appealing to rodents, they gnaw on them to wear their teeth down.”

When he finished his speech, there was a heavy silence, only broken by the sudden crying of the other boy.

“For goodness´ sake.” The boy´s father said. “What kind of freak are you?”

There was a moment when the adults had stopped their chat and were paying attention to his lecture. Mycroft passed an arm around his shoulder and moved him from there. He heard his parents talking irately and then he could fell them walking behind them.

As soon as they arrived home, their mother went to bed complaining about a headache. Their father went to prepare tea; curiously, his brother didn´t give him one of his “not-upset-mummy” discourses. When she came out of the bedroom, she stated that they wouldn´t back to the church, that people who didn´t encourage scientific knowledge were a good company for their sons.

Sherlock thought it would be the end of socialising, but he was mistaken. A month later, their mother came home saying that she had got an invitation for a tea next weekend.

“There is this woman that goes to the local market regularly.” She said with enthusiasm. “I just knew her by sight, but after running into each other so many times, today we have decided to streak up a conversation. Her name is Amanda Richardson, and she has a son, Stephen, close to your age, Mycroft.”

Before he could stop himself, Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I´ve seen that Mikey... I don´t want any protest.”

“But...”

“No buts, you will go and you will behave.”

“I always behave; I am the personification of politeness.”

“I don´t want you to be only polite. I also want you to be open and natural.”

“Open and natural?”

“Do you think I don´t notice what you do when you meet someone new? Your manners are so icily civil that people just give up speaking with you. On the other hand, you must set an example to your brother.”

“What? Do I have to go? Why do I have to go?” It was the younger Holmes´ turn to feel outraged.

“Darling... Don´t be like that, it will be a very nice gathering. I am sure Amanda´s son is a very nice boy, he will make you feel welcome.

At the moment his mother called him “darling”, Sherlock knew she was very serious about this tea party, so on Friday, he found himself in Amanda and Joseph Richardson´s house. They weren´t the only guest, Mrs Richardson had also invited her neighbours, Mr and Mrs Byrne, and their daughter Lucy.

The first ten minutes had been slightly bearable. Before coming, Mycroft had been lectured about not filling up his plate with food. “One scone is more than sufficient” Their mother had said. So for the moment, his brother was concentrating on stirring his tea, maybe with too much obsession, probably to keep his hands busy and “far” from sandwiches, biscuits and cakes. Sherlock was finding the situation funny; he could use the new memory as blackmail material to tease his sibling when he became too annoying. But then, someone asked Mycroft about his studies, and he started to talk about an essay he was writing, something about diplomacy in The Concert of Europe, i.e.: something boring. However, before zoning out, he noticed that his brother was talking about the subject with a lot of enthusiasm; it had to be his new strategy, talking about a topic nobody cared about to be left alone.

The behaviour of the other two teenagers in the room got Sherlock´s attention. They seemed to listen to Mycroft with a lot of interest, or better said, they feigned to feel interested. Lucy was doing a better job, tilting her head and nodding now and then. Stephen was having more problems, he blinked too often, what indicated he was struggling to keep the attention and probably awake. Anyway, it didn´t make sense. Why try so hard? They could just let their minds wandering; an amazing or interesting at the end of his brother´s chatter would be enough to keep the appearance of politeness in front of the adults.

“What about you, Sherlock? What do you like?” Mrs Byrne asked, once his brother finished.

“Pirates.” His mother answered for him a bit too sudden, probably trying to prevent another lesson on human decomposition.

“Oh, isn´t he cute?” That was Lucy.

Sherlock moved in his seat as if he wanted to get comfortable; the reality was he was trying to avoid a harsh answer. He hated when people referred to him in such a way. Usually, it was the prelude of pinching his cheeks or ruffling his hair. Why did people feel entitled to do that? Why did they assume it was right?

“It is a pity the weather is so unstable today; we could have had tea in the garden.” Amanda commented, “The little one would have enjoyed more there.”

The “little one” frowned when he was called that, Mycroft chose that moment to be irritating and nudge him, a clear warning not to say anything.

“Maybe, I could go to the attic and try to find some of my old games.” Stephen offered “Although I am not sure where they can be.”

The glance between Amanda´s son and Lucy didn´t go unnoticed for the youngest in the room. It would take him some years to know that when teenagers start to have romantic relationships, they behave as if they were at a superior level regarding their peers. However, at that, moment he understood all that adult parody was to impress each other.

“I could help.” Lucy offered while she pulled a strand of hair behind her ear.

His brother had told him that gesture was typical among girls when they wanted to show interest in a boy.

“That is a nice offer.” Mrs Holmes said “Sherlock loves playing table games with Mycroft, but as you can imagine, his brother is very busy with his studies. Sherlock, you could go with Lucy and Stephen, see what game would you like, so they don´t have to bring all of them.”

“I don´t want...”

Mycroft nudge him again and discretely shake his head, he had also guessed the relation between Lucy and Stephen, and very likely he didn´t want him to deliver the information.

“What don´t you want darling?” Mrs Byrne asked.

“I... I don´t want to bother people. I am perfectly fine.” He managed to say.

“Isn´t he cute?” Amanda stated “Don´t worry, dear. You aren´t bothering anybody. You don´t have anyone of your age here, but that doesn´t mean you can´t have some fun.”

“Cute”, there it was, another stupid endearment.

“It isn´t necessary, honestly.”

“Sherlock.” His mother chuckled nervously. “It is polite to accept the kindness of those who are trying to be considerate with us. You have to forgive him; he is still learning the complexity of... social niceties.”

His mother apologising on his behalf was too much, especially when he didn´t see any reason to do it. He didn´t want to be alone with two annoying teenagers in love. What is more, he didn´t want to be in that living-room at all. He was fed up with trying to be “nice”, fed up with Mycroft and his subtle indications to say or not to say something, fed up with people calling him “cute” or “little one”.

“It is Ok,” Mrs Richardson said condescendingly “It is must be hard for a six-year-old child to stay put and listen to older people talk. Come on, darling. Go with Stephen and Lucy to the attic, who knows, maybe you find a pirate treasure.”

“I DON´T WANT TO BE WITH TWO SILLY TEENAGERS GETTING ALL GOOEY OVER EACH OTHER.” Sherlock blurted, annoyed by the fact that nobody seemed to pay attention to him.

Suddenly there was a shocked silence, broken only by Amanda´s laugh.

“My goodness.” She said. “Stephen, are you dating Lucy? It almost looks like soap opera, the long-life friends that fall in love.”

“ It cannot be possible.” Mr Richardson replied. By his tone of voice, it was quite clear that he wasn´t amused, but he disapproved the relation.

“Joseph that´s a bit hard, it´s Lucy. We know her since she was a child; you know she is a great girl.”

“It cannot be possible,” Joseph repeated again stubbornly.

Mrs Byrne started to sob. Everybody could see how the expression on Amanda´s face changes from surprise to realisation.

“Mum.” Mycroft said “We should go, I am afraid I have to finish my essay. Mrs Richardson, thank you for the invitation.” For a second he considered to express his pleasure for meeting the rest of attendee, but bearing in mind the circumstances, he decided against it. Amanda just nodded.

“Shall we go?” Mycroft addressed his parents while he hauled his brother. They left without another word.

The return to home was too tense. As soon as they got into the car, their mother leant back in the seat and closed her eyes. The rest of the family interpreted it as a symptom of a headache. Sherlock didn´t understand what had happened in the Richardsons´ house, such a reaction couldn´t be only for refusing to go to the attic, could it?

“Mycroft?”

“Not now.”

The stern tone in his brother´s voice confirmed, at least, that he had done something wrong, although he didn´t know what. When they arrived at their home, Mrs Holmes informed she had a migraine, and she didn´t want to be disturbed. Mr Holmes went to the kitchen to prepare tea.

“For goodness´ sake, Sherlock. If you are going to make a deduction, at least you should do it to the end.” His sibling said once they were alone.

“To the end?”

“Yes, to the end. Maybe that way, you would know when to keep certain information for yourself. Now mummy is upset...”

“What did I miss?”

“Seriously?”

For the second time in the day, the future consulting detective felt sick and tired of everything. He had spent the whole day doing what others wanted, going to a tea, being quite... and at the end, it hadn´t mattered. He always got something wrong. In other circumstances, he would insist on knowing what he had missed. However, that time he realised he just wanted to be far from everything, so without thinking too much, he bolted out, shouting for Redbeard and without giving Mycroft a chance to catch him.

And thus, it was how he found himself in the riverbank, under the big willow. He threw another branch and then a stone. He ended up taking whatever he found on the ground, pebbles, old leaves, and throwing them with fury, trying to get rid up of the frustration that he had accumulated through the day, but he could only feel more and more rage until he felt someone graving his wrist at the moment he was about to hurl a piece of bark. His brother had found him, and the fact that he hadn´t seen him coming increased his anger. 

“That´s enough, Sherlock,” Mycroft said “Look at you. You are dirty and wet. It is time to stop this nonsense and to go back home before mum notices our absence and gets more upset.”

“Upset? I didn´t upset anybody.”

“And your actions in the Richardsons´ house said another thing.”

“I shouldn´t be blamed for not wanting to be alone with two silly teenagers. You wouldn´t have wanted it, had you been in my situation.”

“My gosh, you haven´t figured it out yet.”

“Figured what...”

“Stephen and Lucy are half-siblings.”

“What...?”

“Sherlock, if you are going to steal my biology textbook and driving me mad with questions about Mendelian inheritance and genetics, at least you could use the information wisely...”

Sherlock didn´t say anything, but the shock on his face was evident. Mycroft sighed.

“Lucy has freckles, it is a dominant trait; however, Mr and Mrs Byrne don´t. On the other hand Mr Richardson... And before you say that it was better to have the truth revealed... You are right, but this is one of those things where social conventions are important, it matters how and who reveals the truth, and a six-year-old child is not the best option.”

“Anyone with freckles could be Lucy´s father.” The younger Holmes said more subdued.

“Yes, but he and Mrs Byrne were the only ones in that living-room who tried to avoid eye contact with each other. Nonetheless, I have to confess that I had the final confirmation when he didn´t... ´allow` the relationship.”

Sherlock didn´t say anything. Lucy resembled so much his mother that he hadn´t paid attention to her freckles. On top of that, he had been so focused on the two teenagers that he had overlooked the dynamics of the rest of the people.

“I always get something wrong.” He whispered; a tinge of defeat could be heard in his voice.

Mycroft loosed his grip and proceeded to hold his brother´s hand.

“Let´s go home and change those clothes.”

As soon as they arrived, they found their father waiting for them.

“We went for a walk.” The older brother said. “Sherlock was upset, and we thought that a bit of fresh air would make us well. The drizzle has enhanced the smell of the grass.” He knew that nobody would believe such a blunt lie.

There was silence for a couple of seconds. Mr Holmes wasn´t the most clever of the family, but he was the one who knew his members better. He knew that Mycroft would never let his brother go out in the middle of the rain without a raincoat or without changing the “smart shoes” for a couple of wellies; however, he didn´t comment on the lie. The three people in the hall just accepted that subterfuge.

“Of course. Come on Sherlock, it is time to take a shower and put some dry clothes.”

Later on, after being cleaned by his father, Sherlock was lying on his bed, feeling lost, exhausted and humiliated. Meeting people was tiresome, full of rules that he didn´t understand, just to make people that he couldn´t bother about, happy. And Mycroft and his patronising attitude had just added insult to injury. On top of that, every time his mother retired with a “headache”, he felt uneasy. There was a sense of reproach that he didn´t know how to handle.

Suddenly, someone opened the door and came into the room. Despite having his eyes closed, he knew it was Mycroft for his steps.

“Go away, I am not in a mood for your speeches.” He said without opening his eyes and turning in the bed to give his back to his brother.

“I am not here to give any speech.”

“It doesn´t matter, just go away.”

“Very well brother dear, I thought you would enjoy some pirate story after such a ´challenging` day.”

That got Sherlock´s attention.

“_Treasure Island_?”

“As wonderful as that book is, we have read it plenty of times. I think it is time to visit other seas. It is time to sail the South China Sea. _The Tigers of Mompracem_ by Emilio Salgari.”

Sherlock let his brother´s voice lead him to exotic places. Mycroft read until his voice was hoarse and his sibling was perched in the bed, eyes full of curiosity.

“I think I need a break.”

“Not now, now when Yanez has just reappeared.”

“Yanez? Is he your favourite character? Not Sandokan?”

“Nah, Sandokan is too obsessed with that mushy Marianna Guillonk. Yanez is much better, more rational.”

Mycroft chuckled.

“ I agree. Anyway, I really need a respite. Here it´s the deal, I stop here and I lend you the book.”

“Really?”

“Really, but you must bear in mind this is one of my books, you must take good care of it, I mean it.”

“Of course.”

Without another word, he stormed out of his bedroom. That day would be the beginning of new games; for the first time, Redbeard got a “starring role” and a scarf covering his head in an attempt of a turban. To Mrs Holmes despair, one of her heirlooms, a china doll from the end of the 19th century, became the Pearl of Labuan. And as his brother lent him the rest of the books of the series, he was “included” in the game; the older sibling was given the role of James Brooke, Sandokan´s archenemy, years before Sherlock started to consider Mycroft himself his own archenemy. In the most inconvenient moments, when he was reading or studying, the older Holmes brother would be tackled by Sherlock, while shouting: “Surrender Rajah of Sarawak”. While he was leaving the room, Sherlock heard his brother sighed, and muttering “It is all fine”, as if for the first time in the day, he could relax.

* * * * *

“People don´t have arch-enemies.”

John Watson voice brought the consultant detective back from his memory.

“Sorry.”

“In real life, there are no arch-enemies in real life. It doesn´t happen.”

“Doesn´t it? It sounds a bit dull.” A hint of sarcasm coloured the consulting detective´s voice. As always he found amusing when people tried to fit his life in their “monotonous and predictable” thought pattern.

“So... who did I meet?”

“What do real people have then in their real lives?”

“Friends, people they know, people they like, people they don´t like... Girlfriends, boyfriends...”

“What I was saying, dull.”

“You don´t have a girlfriend then.”

“Girlfriend, no... not really my area.”

“All right. You have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way?”

“I know it´s fine.”

“So, you don´t have a boyfriend.”

“No”

“Right, OK. You are unattached, just like me... Right, good.”

There were a couple of seconds full of silence; Sherlock seemed to get more and more confused. It looked like people showing interest, and even kindness, toward him, was still a mystery for the detective.

“John, em. I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work. Well... I am flattered by your interest; I am not really looking for anything...”

“No, no. I am not asking... no, I am just saying it´s all fine.” The three final words echoing the ones of his brother in his memory.

“Good, thank you.”

At that moment a taxi got the attention of Holmes, ending one of the most interesting conversations that had ever taken place in the restaurant. Both men stormed out of the place. Later, Angelo got a text from Sherlock, asking him to bring a forgotten cane to 221 B Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I´ve read a couple of articles in order to get right the “Proust phenomenon” or odour-evoked autobiographical memories. I´ve also found that it can be called involuntary memory, involuntary explicit memory, involuntary conscious memory... I hope the scientific facts aren´t wrong.
> 
> The Concert of Europe is a historic period after Napoleon´s defeat. The European powers of the moment tried to keep the balance in the continent and suffocate any attempt to “resuscitate the French Revolution”. Characters like Metternich, Castlereagh, and the fascinating and controversial Talleyrand tried to defend their countries´ interests in a game of diplomacy and secret agreements.
> 
> Sandokan was the main character of a series of books written by Emilio Salgari. He is a prince of Borneo who turns into a pirate to revenge his family murdered by the British. There were several film and TV adaptations, maybe the most famous is the one made by the Rai (Italian television), starring the Indian actor Kabir Bedi as Sandokan. For James Bond fans, Kabir Bedi was Gobinda, Kamal Khan´s bodyguard, in Octopussy.
> 
> I have to confess that I have a... “strange” headcanon. In my imagination, when Mycroft was a child, let´s say around six years old, he was a huge fan of swashbuckler literature, that explains why he has the novels by Salgari.


	6. I maintain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to know the narrator. I thought of this character to tell this story in the middle of the writing. I have to confess, the more I thought about it, the more I liked. In the end, I had to include him.

I maintain that during my time as a waiter in Angelo´s Restaurant, I heard and witnessed extraordinary things. I had been trained about the value of close politeness. After all, I was going to be the one welcoming the customers, and I had also been warned about Mr Holmes´ peculiarities. “Don´t let his abrasive personality put you off. There is much more than you can see” Chiara had told me. Despite the advice, I got shocked when he deduced me for the first time. He seemed a bit puzzled for not being greeted by Angelo, but the wish of deducing someone new was more powerful.

“Journalist student... Your degree is just to keep your parents happy, if you only pursued your dreamed writer career, they would be worried and probably annoying you.”

Asking how he knew was really tempting, but Angelo had lectured me about the importance of his “invented job” and having “his table” ready.

“Your table is ready, as always.” I managed to say. That efficiency seemed to win his respect; he smirked and took his place. After an hour, before leaving, he mentioned the textbook beside the computer and my writer´s callus. Only then I saw the obviousness of his deduction. As time went by, he ended up calling me by my first name. According to Angelo, that was a kind of honour.

I saw Sherlock Holmes walking out, most of the times storming out, of the restaurant to solve some mystery. I saw him coming back once the puzzled had been solved just to let Chiara worked her miracles with him. I was also a privileged spectator of his conversation with Dr Watson.

I still remember the first day the doctor came to get some food after a case. He hadn´t met Chiara yet, but as she used to do with the consulting detective, she came out of the kitchen to greet his new costumer.

“You must be Angelo´s daughter. Sherlock has sent me for some food; he didn´t tell me what he wanted. When I asked him, he just said ´Don´t insult her ability` And he instructed me not to ask for something specific for me either.” His face showed his confusion.

Chiara laughed “Certain traditions are important without any specific reason, Mr Watson.”

“It is Doct...” He interrupted himself; something in her smile made him reconsider what he was going to say. “It is John.”

“It is Chiara.” And she went to prepare _risotto con zucchini_.

With Dr Watson, it also came the blog. It goes without saying that, in the restaurant, we became huge fans of the stories. Especially Angelo, who started a new habit, to read them before noon to enjoy them with a good cappuccino.

Things seemed to fit in a kind of unpredictable routine, especially when it came to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: cases, stories and Chiara´s opportunity to show off her skill, not to one, but two special customers. Nothing made us think that things would change, at least in the short term, until that morning, the morning we woke up with TV and newspapers informing about the suicide of a fake genius.

Those who had been working in the restaurant when the owner was arrested said that then the atmosphere had been tense, but not so dismal. The staff talked in whispers, asking for each other´s opinions. “Was he really a fraud?” Nobody seemed to have an actual answer. Angelo went into a sulk for most of the day, until he couldn´t stand the murmurs anymore.

“HE WASN´T A FRAUD.” He exclaimed “Sherlock Holmes was a great man. He saved my reputation. Thanks to him, this business is still going on, and you have a job.”

And with that, he came into the office slamming the door.

Chiara came out from the kitchen after hearing her father shouting.

“Sorry about that.” She said to a puzzled audience. “But you must understand...” She got quiet. For a moment, she remembered how the detective´s eyes shined when he had deduced her passion for cooking, his vulnerability once he had solved her father´s case, his confusion when someone showed him sympathy. “You must understand that we owe a lot to Sherlock Holmes, that we appreciated him. We believe in Sherlock Holmes. And now it is time to get ready, we are about to open.”

Chiara´s calmness and dignity seemed to steel something inside us. Suddenly, everybody shared a certainty: we would miss the consulting detective.

Time went by, and people continued showing up in the restaurant. As always, Angelo´s daughter prepared dishes that alleviated their problems and celebrated happy moments. The routine seemed to hide the sorrow for the loss of our favourite costumer; a sadness that was more noticeable in our boss, who from time to time seemed to get taciturn, especially after hearing some sensationalist pieces of news.

Sometimes we wondered about John Watson, how he would be doing and coping. Angelo asked Chiara to prepare something, and he went to Baker Street to check on him. A tearful Mrs Hudson told him that the doctor had left the apartment and he hadn´t been in contact for a while. Angelo gave her the sebadas prepared by his daughter and a hug that allow them to cry in peace. We didn´t expect to see the former soldier again, but one morning, when Chiara went to the restaurant to get things ready for the day, she found him in front of the window, “Sherlock´s” window.

“John”

John startled when he heard Chiara calling him, very likely he wasn´t expecting to be found there.

“Sorry... I thought nobody would be here so soon.”

The clumsy apology, the fact that he had said sorry for something that didn´t require any pardon, saddened Chiara.

“It is ok. I always arrive an hour or two earlier than the rest of the staff. I love the quietness of the kitchen before the madness of the workday; it helps to prepare myself mentally.”

“Then, I should be going, it was nice...” Dr Watson was interrupted by the cook.

“Why don´t you come inside?”

“I wouldn´t like to interrupt your day.”

“You wouldn´t interrupt anything. Please, John.”

That please and the gentleness in Chiara´s eye made the doctor change his mind. She opened the door and let the man in. Instead of inviting him to sit in the dining area, she led him to the kitchen, her realm and a place that wouldn´t be so full of memories.

“Take that stool over there and have a seat, would you like to eat something?”

“I don´t want to impose.”

“Come on, you know no isn´t an answer for me.” For a moment, she thought that Sherlock would have said it was stupid to ask when you were determined to do something. She decided not to share her thought. “I will prepare a piadina stuffed with melted chocolate.”

John kept quiet while Chiara was cooking. It was a calming silence, only interrupted by the shooting sounds of the cutlery, balls and saucepans; the effect was intensified by the smelt of dark chocolate melting. When she finished, she put the food in front of her guest.

“Tell me what you think.”

John tried a piece of the piadina.

“I remembered the first time you prepared this for us.” He said after the first forkful. “We had spent a whole night in a storehouse, trying to solve a case. It was in the middle of November and it was cold, really cold; I thought that I would lose my fingers despite wearing gloves. Finally, we cracked the mystery. This tasted so good after such a long night, it still tastes good.”

“Glad to know that.”

“Sherlock di...” The doctor swallowed, and Chiara noticed that it was still hurtful for him to speak about the detective in past. “Sherlock didn´t use to eat during cases, he snacked now and then, but he didn´t take proper meals. According to him, digestion slowed him down. One day, we had been trying to decipher a code for hours; I was at the end of my strength and patience, on top of that there wasn´t any food at home, so I suggested getting something from here. He told me: ´No, Chiara´s food brings memories`. The answer puzzled me, but it wasn´t until a couple of days later, once we had finished that case, that I decided to ask what he had meant by ´bringing memories`. He was a bit reluctant at the beginning, but he ended up confessing that the first time we had eaten together in the restaurant, the smelt of what I had ordered had made him remember an afternoon that he had spent with his family and acquaintances having tea.”

John told Chiara about what Sherlock had remembered that evening, and how he tried to look unemotional by blaming the Proust process. The former soldier also confessed that, during that dinner, he had remembered her sister´s confession of her homosexuality. While he talked, big tears ran down his face. Chiara never interrupted, she didn´t comment anything, she just listened and allowed John Watson to remove his own layers and expose the core, with all the pain that was inside.

When he finished his story and the food, he whispered: “Thank you, I really needed that”.

“There is nothing to thank.” She answered. “Believe me.”

“I think that I should go, I´ve realised that there is something important that I have to do.”

Chiara went with him to the door.

“Take care of yourself, John, and remember we are here.”

He didn´t answer, he just smiled sadly. Chiara saw him walking away and taking his mobile, for a couple of seconds she was able to hear the conversation: “Mrs Hudson, are... Are you still interested in going to the cemetery?” Chiara thought that would be the last time she would see the doctor.

The first anniversary of Sherlock´s death, Angelo put the “reserved” note and a candle on the “detective´s table”.

“He would probably have scorned.” He said.

“And for that same reason, we are doing this.” His daughter answered. They shared a good laugh. It was about time to stop grieving and start to honour the beloved one by bringing good memories.

Two months later, I left the restaurant. I had got my chance in a small newspaper. However, it seemed that the small eatery had bewitched me, and I was unable to stop going. There was always a need to go there, looking for the healing properties of Chiara´s cooking. When I got the news that Sherlock´s name had been cleared, I knew where I had to be, even if it wasn´t open time. As I had suspected, Angelo had summed the staff.

“I knew you would come.” Chiara commented as she passed me a glass of wine. “You have arrived on time for the great moment.”

“FOR SHERLOCK.” Angelo shouted and he raised his glass.

“FOR SHERLOCK.”

This should be the end of this story, but a couple of days ago, London and the world woke up with the news that the consulting detective is alive. While some of my colleagues are getting ready to go to Baker Street to hunt the best photo or to come up with the best headline, I have decided to come to Angelo´s restaurant, again.

Maybe, a superstitious part of me believes it is here where I have to write the full stop of this tale. Maybe, a wise part of me thinks there is something special in this place, where two lonely souls came together thanks to food that brings memories. I am sure new ones will be born here.


	7. Epilogue. Senza Fine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have always thought of finishing this story with a dialogue between Chiara and Billy, a dialogue that doesn´t end, as a symbol of Angelo´s restaurant being always there. It was tricky, as I decided not to describe places or feelings and I had to rely on what the characters were saying. 
> 
> The idea of an endless dialogue also inspired the subtitle of the Epilogue. Senza fine, Without End, it is also the title of Italian song by Gino Paoli.

“Here again, Billy? You should be honest with yourself and admit that you miss working here.”

“That smirk on your face betrays you, Chiara. I know you are happy to see me.”

“Of course, I am. Let me open the door, once inside we can have a good chat and catch up.”

“The restaurant looks like a sleeping creature when it is empty. It surprised me when I worked here, it still does.”

“I know, I´ve always felt this quietness like a ´recharge moment`... So, your former kingdom, the dining area, or my realm?”

“I don´t know why you ask. You know that I always choose yours.”

“Would you like to drink or eat anything?”

“A _doppio_ would be nice.”

“Still drinking the coffee in the Italian way...

“I still remember your father lecture about why drinking cappuccino after eleven o´clock is not a good idea.”

“By the way, I´ve been experimenting with some recipes from Ancient Rome. Here is your coffee.”

“Thank you. So, are you going to start serving wolf nipple chips.”

“Very funny... No, I wasn´t thinking of anything exotic, but simple food. _Moretum_, which is made with cheese, or _epitirum_, which is prepared with olives. They would be a nice antipasto.

“Sounds interesting.”

“I can offer you some of those later. What are you doing here? I thought you would be in Baker Street, covering the miracle of the year.”

“I told you, Chiara, I am more a columnist than a proper journalist. I came because I felt that I had to finish something here.”

“When I arrived, you were writing in one of those notebooks that you are so fond of. Did you want to finish an article here?”

“It wasn´t an article. To be honest, I don´t know what exactly is. When I started to write it, I wanted it to be a kind of J´accuse by Émile Zola. Do you know that story?”

“Not sure, is the one about a French Captain who was condemned for passing information to Germany despite being innocent?”

“Yeah, the Dreyfuss Affair. Zola wrote an article in L´Aurore journal that helped to reopen the case.”

“I imagine that you wanted to do something similar with Sherlock.”

“Yes and no.”

“My goodness, Billy. You aren´t helping me to understand with so much ambiguity.”

“Look, I started to work in the newspaper one year after the suicide, fourteen months to be exact. The anniversary had rekindled the debate about who really Sherlock Holmes was and let me tell you, it was horrible. It looks a bit crazy, but while I was here I wasn´t aware of how... “intense” the debate could be. Your father´s faith in the detective and your dignity when you stated that you believe in him, had shielded the restaurant from the craziness of the arguing generated by his death. So when finally I could see how mad and fanatic people could become, it was a shock. But you know what angered more? The fact that people seemed to forget that they were talking about human beings. Sherlock was loved and appreciated. And maybe it wasn´t his intention, maybe the thrill he got from solving cases was the most important thing. However, he helped real individuals, he improved people´s life, even if it wasn´t his intention. Suddenly, that fact was being forgotten or ignored, the society split into those who vilified him and those who worshipped, and it was unfair and disgusting.

I took a decision then, I started to write the story of your family and Sherlock, thinking that it could help to bring some sanity. Nonetheless, as I was writing, I realised that probably nobody would understand. People would come here as blindness pilgrims to take selfies in “Sherlock´s table”, or just to see if they could provoke your father. I decided not to publish the story, even though I knew any publishing house would be more than happy to get it, and it could be my big opportunity. But even when I took that determination, something inside me pushed me to finish the story. When I heard that he was alive, I felt that it was time for the full stop and I had to do it here. Do you think that I am crazy?”

“I told you the story when my nonna taught to cook pasta al tartufo.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Do you remember what she said about truffles?”

“´All the worthy things are praised or denigrated, but they are rarely understood.` I´ve never forgotten that sentence, it is so full of wisdom.”

“You aren´t crazy, Billy. You just understood.”

“Yeah... maybe you are right, I understood, I understand.”

...

“Tell me something, Chiara. Did he come to the restaurant?”

“Yes, he did, yesterday. Dad almost killed him for real with a hug.”

“A hug, your father hugged Sherlock Holmes, not sure if he will back.”

“He was obviously uncomfortable, but I am sure he will back. He asked to have something ready for today, to take it to Baker Street. He even gave some instructions.”

“Really?”

“He told me that he needed something to ´celebrate`.”

“ A ´coming back home` party?”

“John Watson´s engagement party.”

“I knew you would have interesting news. Do you know what are you going to prepare?”

“It is already done, among other things, a bonet.”

“And pasta al tartufo?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sure about this fact, but I have read it in several websites. Italians don´t drink cappuccino after 11 am; as it has milk, it is considered a breakfast drink. If the information is not correct, let me know.
> 
> Wolf nipples, obviously, it is a reference to The Life of Brian.
> 
> Alfred Dreyfus was a French captain condemned to be imprisoned in French Guyana. He had been accused of passing information to the Germans. It was discovered that there had been many irregularities to make him appear guilty. The Dreyfus Affair divided French society at the end of the nineteenth century. Zola´s open letter, J´accuse, it is an example of the power of the press to move public opinion.


End file.
